The End of Desire

By Corrine De Winter

The door is ajar
with an amber light inside.
There is a white gardenia in my hair
and I am waiting
for your mouth
to spell me out.

Like diamond dust the snow
fell that night I held
your face in my hands
and told you
sin isn't rare anymore.

Why I dreamed there was a serpent
in my heart
coiled in the shape
of your initials.

Every home
turns to leaves and ashes.
Dirty reflections
and dry offerings.
After the end of desire
even birdsong
had become an unnatural thing.