Melting

She did not like the plate of fried birds
I placed by the bed for our siesta.
Nourishment, I said. She wanted them to fly.
Put them on your nipples, I said angrily,
and they will resurrect
the way I resurrect each time I harden
over your liquid body.
Shostakovitch was playing on the ancient gramophone.
I thought of the siege of Leningrad
and laid siege to her
pitilessly.
Hot siesta, winter snow!

I felt dissatisfied with necrophilia
so instead I flew away
abandoning all the dead bodies.

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