Epitaph X

　　by Thomas Heise

　　My birthright I have traded for a petal dress

　　and a summer eulogy. I have pawned my soul

　　for this opal ring， the color of a pale， taxidermied eye.

　　If I could carry calla lilies on my shoulder once more

　　like an umbrella in daylight， I would lean them

　　on the cemetery gate and sleep until the groundskeeper found me.

　　For some of us， beauty is carcinoma.

　　The saint‘s stigmata is god’s rose， bestowed

　　for forgoing a human lover， who will， of course， die.

　　I died last year. My mother made her tears into crystal

　　earrings and clipped them to my ears. “Son， you will

　　pay for your sin，“ my father spoke from his throne of glass.

　　Stars burn a sharp， white nacre until they evaporate.

　　The moon‘s flamingo unfolds her iodine wings over the broken city.

　　My necropolis. My teeth are the fruit of your olive tree.