that-woman-alexis-dewitt

I stare at her and feel myself fall most gyte,

her hair knotted black and her body cold,

In life her cheeks rosy and her features delicate as a sprite,

with her in sight, and if I may be so bold,

for her I’d truly have paid eightyfold.

She of the womanly kind,

who is so lovely and sweetly perfumed,

on the dim and rainy street for her I’d have pined. 

I can only imagine in what ways she is unbloomed,

gray-skinned and soft where she lays entombed.

It is me ‘The Knowledgeable’ in the place of the dead

that stands with gloved hands over the ever-youthful lady,

and it is me ‘The Knowledgeable’ who imagines her lips bitten red.

I am the most lucky man, says my mind gaily,

and I lowered myself close and thought how her scent made me most hazy.

Laid her down on my metal table immaculate,

propped her head aloft in a semblance of rest,

and over that table I lean and her in my arms I bracket.

So with my blade, on sternum I pressed;

and then I cut her, hip to breast.

It is there with that most intimate bared,

that her hair entwined within my fist.

And though I found myself scared,

I willed myself a bend of the wrist,

and it was then those deadened lips I kissed.