Widow's Laughter

Isolation creeps like widow's laughter
Into every inch of my voice
I am heaping dust upon the thousand masks
That I have buried in time's shallow grave

I am spinning endlessly in a sea of shed skins,
I am plucking the hairs, one by one, from G-d's
Uncircumsised cock

I am drowning in a river of whispered prayers,
There is a fortress in my brain full of dead flags and echoes:
A desire in my hands for the texture of dirt and flesh

I want to climb the dry ribcage of the universe
And eat the beating heart

I want to tear the muscles from my limbs
And sew them to the sky

I want to pull apart the fabric of logic
And drink the blood that streams from the stitches...

...Widow's laughter is my meager ration -

A thousand women raped by modesty,
And defiled by virtue,

All dance, and sing slow songs,

On the tip of my grave.