lap at your grave,

are you on fire, on fire, on fire?

The one he promised?

Wasn't what you expected,

was it?

Are you spending August Underground,

or did his snapping teeth take you in

greedily, traitorously.

A wolf in lamb's fleece

with a bark smooth-talking

and a bite smooth-swallowing.

Has the rot overtaken

the iron in your blood,

in strewn-out veins

that lead back to your mother?

You couldn't wash it out 'til death.

"Out, damned spot," you'd wail,

but as it's gushing out,

you'd find it remains

in the rotting memories

of women whose inbred cycle

you inherited.