under the yew

the night is charcoal and silver
under the yew at the crossroads
where two people meet

she is elegant like dusk, with black hair
three silver eyes
and one hand

he is boastful like midnight and oh handsome
but one of his eyes is a dark bucket and he has
three hands

they barter
under the winter moon
under rasping yew branch

delicately she lends him
one eye, quietly she borrows
a hand

they waltz off together
linked organ to joyous
organ by floating threads
that sing

look closely now
ten years later
at the crossroads under the yew
those tender mutual grafts

(that silver eye, that beautiful hand)
have knotted into twisting
meat-hooks planted deep
within flesh

those delicate threads linking
eye to eye and hand
to hand have thickened like scars
into wrenching

rawhide rope, it is
all bright blood and deep bruise
under the yew tonight