Holocaust: A Love Poem
Burning from yearning,
a lambent lament.
Hands reach out from Limbo, decisions are spent,
nickeled and dimed out of heaven and still won't repent.
No quarter, no quarters.
My kingdom for water.
Turning from burning,
Beatrice yearns for the curtains, her black phoenix bed.
Turgid screams from the sirens claw the night air.
Sirens, who sing for their supper, dear lover, BEWARE.
Combustible ire, ashen desire.
--Bella QFebruary 2010
(Poet'snote: more Stevie Smith than Sylvia Plath, but there you have it.)