I slice my breasts to build this bridge
brick by fleshy brick, till blood
runs down my belly and my legs
are red with it. Mortar it
with entrails, cover it
in human skin, that you may walk
to your demise, black prince,
and swing from the rope
in the wasted wind. No galleons
sail today. The tears of widows
flood the streets, you dance
the stinking dark.
We grieve this passage -
a shadow through the inadvertent art
of prison walls.
We slosh though salty streets
in blood-filled boots. Our tracks
are everywhere. Behind the masks,
beneath the robes, we bleed.
And he, the one who sets the noose,
justice's slave, will burn beside us
in our grief, the bastard joy
the failing of a civil man.
Don't dare come near, my knife
has edge enough for you, too.
