it must end where it all began.

in the basement of his mother’s house,

two days before Christmas eve,

when a red-breasted robin will

make footprints in the snow.

it must end here, on the couch where

you sacrificed his virginity at the altar of your temple,

when you cruficified his body

and nailed his palms to your back;

he told you he loved you that day

and now you must tell him

as you straddle him close to your womb

that he is incense sticks in a rain storm

and you are too much for him.