The porcelain pyre is ready.
Inching towards the fragrant pit
with salts for the wounds
and candles to illuminate my shame,
I begin the ritual of amorous
dissolution to absolve me of sins
I did not commit.
The floating petals like
blood touched with dry ice,
have curled up in accursed pleasure.
Wading through the floral debris
my hands find where I open,
beyond the blisters of blame.
Perhaps in...