SLOVENKA
g.a. scheinoha
She wore a silver
slovak cross
in that place
where all men meet
in their thoughts;
that gathering place
of the waters, where
sweat and breasts
join as one,
deep in her cleavage
it hung,
like a bullet buried
in my wild wolf heart.
Little more
than filigree,
twin crossbars,
one longer, one short
and that vertical stab
an et tu thrust
into my intestines
disemboweling me
on a memory.
Where I flopped
on the deck like ryba;
that great fish strung
from a hook
while her eyes
filleted me
one side at a time,
peeling me back
deeper than muscle, truth,
lies or bone.
She left a message
in the marrow, as finely
wrought as
scrimshaw,
etched firmly
as forever
each curlicue
another moment
in the day of the month
of next year.
