I cannot tell if the day
is ending, or the world, or if
the secret of secrets is inside me again
-Anna Akhmatova
Mitzy and I were doing alright, I thought.
It turns out you can get used to most smells.
We spent our mornings strolling through
graveyards looking for trinkets for the house.
We made love in complex positions that required
lengths of rope and one-legged balance, our
shadows casting jagged and strange shapes on
candlelit walls. We ornamented our headboard
with drying flowers and tiny skulls. I hung wind
chimes made from rabbit bones at the front door.
She loved the sound so much, she did all the gutting
after that. I enjoyed the feeling of washing the dishes,
and she taught me the words “I take refuge in the body,
I take refuge in the death, I take refuge in the song.”
We ate a bloody soup of organs for three nights and for
three more she hopped and danced with wild eyes
blowing an Aztec death whistle. She was ecstatic when
I lured a doe into the yard. She started
calling me Bardo after that, which I liked
though I didn’t know what it meant. This morning I
rubbed the sleep from my face and heard the sound of a
tiny bird outside, maybe a warbler. But it’s dead now.
