Breaking up the Cytherea
I heard her ribs crack beneath my hammer.
It was time. I think she knew it too
but maybe hoped I’d let her stay,
repair the gaping seams,
go back to when we’d pull each other
further out and faster
till we found the dreaming edge
and balanced on a wave that meant
to take us under.
I let the hammer fall again.
Even though, just for a moment there,
I could have sworn she still looked perfect,
each curve smooth as when we met.
Funny, how the light twists sometimes,
in your eyes. It must have been the rain,
although I never felt it falling.
Afterwards, I stood there in the smoke
till there was nothing left of her but
splinters under my skin.
From Flarestack: Obsessed with Pipework, a quarterly poetry magazine. By permission of the poet.