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“Charm is a deadly thing,” the enchantress said.

I could not account for the sorrow in her crumpled

face, nor did I understand why she spoke at all–––

as if people listen at parties, as if they care about

the prudent and the wise, or the clock that strikes

upon the hour. My smile would never reach her.

Instead, it gallivanted across the room, strutting

here and there, warming itself at the dance,

determined to have its way–––splitting bodies

into axis and allies, commandeering vessels

without regard for opulence or rank. If only.

If only I could remember the way his blouse was

slashed to reveal a heart as dark as rose petals.

Beneath it all (the alabaster face to be chipped

away; the circling, crimson and full of promise;

the blunt weaponry), what did I see?

If only I remembered! She was looking ever on,

she was mumbling her spells, she was certain

I would fall and spat acid warnings in the night.

If only I remembered! When her eyes punctured

the joy of the scramble, the bliss of being men,

and pinned us to the wall–––did we writhe?

Did we bleed to death in an endless instant?

If only I remembered! The chill of mourning

makes it impossible now to grope for truth.

I have dressed too many coffins. The knell

rings out, and my marrow repeats the sound.

I know. I do know. It is a lethal, lethal Thing.