Rescue

If you descend,
I will drag you up by the knots of your hair.
I will tear, from your scalp, the clods of your grave
until dirt stains my skin like parchment ink.
I will draw the heaviness from your lolling neck
until I stiffen enough to lift you.
Asp-like, I will wreath myself around the auditors of the tombs,
blind them with kisses
and rush from the seam of their jail with you
bundled around me;

never looking back.
Not glancing, not thinking
of ever looking back.

Testing, testing...

Oh Mr Thumper, run!
The men with traps come for you
their backs afire with love for you
for what pricked eyes and bunny screams
can lead them to.

In death, Mr Thumper, death!
You keep in store a gruesome treat
for the lab-child in his collared coat
(his coat of many contradictions):
a monster grips his dreams.