Kristin Garth

His Music Box Courtesan Is A Corpse

Shuts you off whenever he is away
to pine in a pearlescent box in the dark. 
Closes the cover.  No arias play.
Leaves nothing but his scent and the marks 
on your naked prone torso, the limbs beneath 
whose ache recedes more each undisturbed day
though a sea aggregates of dripping grief 
beneath that threatens to drown if he delays.
Opens you up one day too late to find 
his music box courtesan is a corpse. 
Immobile blue body he can no longer wind 
to satisfy lust or even remorse.
You start to die when you cease to be hurt.  
How gently he places your box in the dirt.