Self-Portrait

by Audra Burwell

What if you could taste the moonstone 

on my glitter-glass tongue? 

Feel the thistle budding behind my knees 

its milk-sap sickly-sweet? 

What if you could make love 

to loneliness the way I do? 

Like a summer storm 

left shattered and aching 

or dream to life amaranth skies 

veined in amber and gold. 

Would you thread your fingers 

through the pelt of Death 

lick the honey from his hide 

as I do? 

How much grief 

could you vessel?

 How long 

before rupture?