Happy Little Death Threats
Death threats hold no sway here as I await
the Good Mister, tailored in wool, buttoned
into well-postured-place. Oh, how he’ll touch
me, pull up my nightdress, fit my breasts
into a tight gown, partition and plait my hair
like my mother once did. Arrange my arms
like a hinged doll.
So sorry, my dear,
this body longs for pine wood, even if
an unlucky soul—buried, undead—I wake
and, sighing in the dark box, must decide
whether or not to ring the cemetery bell
and be hoisted back up into the light.
Would-be killer, you’re no killer at all.
Fold up your net; time will do your trawling.