Behind Dust and Doors

Another Western, another grisly scene between lovers, between bodies, am I'm still never sure who comes out for the better...

She tasted like the dirt beneath his fingernails,
Like the dust that blew in the summer heat,
And he only knew his name as it sounded on her lips,
The fabled guns of his grandfathers in shadow beneath the lamp,
Hiding in the cracked leather beds of his belt,
Perfectly shaped to put cold iron asleep,
Or to wake it quickly for the killing,
Where the stars are doors to other places,

She moved against him and her skin made horrid foreign shapes,
A soft orange landscape masked by coarse sheets cast aside,
Her fingers finding a strength to hold him close
     that her heart did not possess,
Kept from the darkness by the glowing candle lamp,
He crushed her with a mad violence born in the desert,
Born in the folds of those endless red canyons,
Born in the miserable pain of his screaming mother,
In the moment he was given his life her’s was taken back,

Somewhere wild dogs tear the wet meat from a dead animal,
But his hands were too slow,
The candle fell silent and his guns were lost,
His worn boots and sordid clothes empty on the burdened floor,
Black blood swam slowly along the mattress and into the wooden planks there,
Her hands were cold and her flat naked chest rose and fell,
She whispered his name into his ear,
Barely a voice there,
A quiet sound,
And pulled the dagger from below his ribs.

1.2011