Dante's Heart
Jason Mott
From Death Row, an Interview with a Wolf:
(He stares at his hands as he speaks. His eyes
sunken. Said it was insomnia, nights without peace,
that brought him to me.)
Fine, grade A meat. A feast, that girl—age nine—
all warm and soft and wet inside her red.
So tender, that dear child. How hard I loved
the curves of her. How hard she loved me back.
I watched her after school. I watched and thought
of she and I, entwining: days and breaths—
and teeth and bone—in the green belly of
some idyll dreamed up by Thoreau. She was
my newest house of straw, and I loved her.
I love her still—my love is a black moon.
And lovers should chew love to pulp, adorn
themselves with trophies of it: bands of gold,
small locks of hair, a dress worn once. These girls
in red, how deep my love for them, how sharp.
From Death Row, an Interview with a Wolf:
(He stares at his hands as he speaks. His eyes
sunken. Said it was insomnia, nights without peace,
that brought him to me.)
Fine, grade A meat. A feast, that girl—age nine—
all warm and soft and wet inside her red.
So tender, that dear child. How hard I loved
the curves of her. How hard she loved me back.
I watched her after school. I watched and thought
of she and I, entwining: days and breaths—
and teeth and bone—in the green belly of
some idyll dreamed up by Thoreau. She was
my newest house of straw, and I loved her.
I love her still—my love is a black moon.
And lovers should chew love to pulp, adorn
themselves with trophies of it: bands of gold,
small locks of hair, a dress worn once. These girls
in red, how deep my love for them, how sharp.
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