From behind the hatch,
he could hear the groans
and moans
and screams
and cries
of all his former brides.
The wind whistled
through their throats
across bones
and rotting meat
that sounded much like
bare feet being dragged across tile.
But he was safe on the other side of the glass.
In the mausoleum, he could read in peace.
The undead books beckoning
a man burnt from the inside out
to unhinge their fettered spines
and **** ancient dust into his lungs.
But no male authors had left a page in this grave.
Austin to Alcott in the north.
Wilder to Wollstonecraft in the south.
The likeness of Hera sat on the hearth,
beside some red roses.
He had bought them for his funeral.
And against the east wall,
a shadow hung like Fall in December
cried every night at five.
All he had to do was lift her veil
to light the sky again.
She held the key in her mouth
but he wouldn't know.
Instead of leaving his home
with her hand in his
and exchanging pocket change
for a ticket to the west,
he licked his thumb
and turned the page
to find the remains
of a lizard.
He drank the ocean of his eyes that night
and wished again, like he always did
he had kissed someone at five.
But tonight was unlike any before.
He mumbled nursery rhymes as he paced the floor.
And while sleep hid from him behind the moon,
his True Love left the womb to join the others outside.