neruda sixty-one

he came dragging his line of pain, love.
we opened our eyes to watch this
stunning skeleton of blades and saw
the gashes that would appear on us.

you cry for a crime you did not commit:
your feet follow a trail of drying blood,
virginal hands stained grazing the blades,
led to where your honey turns to bile.

love is that heroic wave made villainous.
it carried us to the rocks with a single crash,
knotted our bodies into a single corpse.

face slapped, pain swallowed, we linger
with devotion in the deserted station, waiting
for the blessed bitch who comes in spring.