June 7: Workshop Last Night, Broken Heart, "It is about night,"

A poem I wrote at workshop last night.  It seems an appropriate one to share this evening for someone who is struggling with a broken heart.

Saint Marty has no other words.

It is about night,

by:  Martin Achatz

that time after sun leeches
from the heavens and spring
peepers scream in the darkness
like the violins from Psycho
just as Norman emerges
in full wig and dress to end
Marion Crane, this woman
desperate for love who happens
on this place in the desert
where mother-love and son-love
and spouse-love and lover-love
come to die, to sink in a black
bog, sealed forever like Tollund
Man under peat swamp.
That's where they'll find its body.
It will be polished, onyx-
skinned, staring up from eyeless
sockets, in its stomach, a last
meal still.  Perfect.
Preserved.  Rack of lamb,
smothered in mint jelly,
resting on a bed of fig leaves,
each one kissed before
it was consumed.