My birthright I have traded for a petal¹ dress

    and a summer eulogy². I have pawned³ my soul

    for this opal ring， the color of a pale， taxidermied eye.

    If I could carry calla lilies on my shoulder once more

    like an umbrella in daylight， I would lean them

    on the cemetery⁴ gate and sleep until the groundskeeper found me.

    For some of us， beauty is carcinoma.

    The saint‘s stigmata is god’s rose， bestowed⁵

    for forgoing⁶ a human lover， who will， of course， die.

    I died last year. My mother made her tears into crystal

    earrings⁷ and clipped them to my ears. “Son， you will

    pay for your sin，“ my father spoke⁸ from his throne of glass.

    Stars burn a sharp， white nacre until they evaporate.

    The moon‘s flamingo⁹ unfolds her iodine¹⁰ wings over the broken city.

    My necropolis. My teeth are the fruit of your olive tree.