Before The Vultures Come

I wake up on our wedding day to a scream (from the ones I had buried alive)—perhaps you can explain to me why they never understand that screams use air up faster—though, you always were more patient with corpses, which I guess is why I love you (it sets me at ease with the way my flesh is a bit more rancid than yesterday); still, as I walk down my aisle of bones, I cannot help but take pleasure in the way they crunch and snap beneath my leather loafers—a hand grips my ankle in supplication, but it does not love me and i do not know how to love it, so i laugh a laugh made sharp with anger and kick my leg with unsurprising force, and i do not understand the tears falling from my eyes—but we say our vows and unfasten the bands that keep our skin from sloughing off our arms, and you set yours on top of mine (you smile and i know our affection will live on as decay)—it would be lovely with the music, but i can’t quite hear it over the screaming ground beneath me, so i drag you off before the vultures catch scent of our discarded flesh and turn their eyes to what remains of us; when it’s my turn, i need to be lain with care: i need my vocal tract intact enough to scream.