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.