Your honor, the fault lies
somewhere between her floating breasts,
the way she sirened me into driftwood,
how the hooves of her lips left me dead silent,
rotting and rotten and ripe as an ivory
corpse. O yes, I surrendered,
half-blooded, and gave her my wrists
raw as fish: she plucked the lights
from inside and wove them into a rain
that rivaled the moon. If I say there was liquor,
will that help my case? I was living
just for her goodnights, each beat
in her voice its own lantern.
When you're marking
down the facts:
say I tried.