The first night
in his narrow bed
she asked if he had ever
killed anyone.
He grinned with delight
and bent himself
to the task of consuming her flesh.
Make no mistake:
she embraced the first death
among the many she was to die with him.
Her body smelled of his
cheap brandy, coffee
flecked with tobacco crumbs.
He gave liquored soliloquies on
the pleasure of suicide,
callous hands
bruising her in sleep.
God knows I love you, he said,
and turned away in his monk’s bed,
surrendering to his own demons,
leaving her one more time.
