Lorcán Black 

Salomé 

 ...that red–ripped, riven skin: 
& the veins slivered over  
a bare stone floor fit for a King. 

 
The fresh, cold plate  
like a destiny 
& his screams so silver:  
 
the plate a mirror  
of horrors– so solidified, desired.  
To my mother’s house  
 
swiftly I come–  
my fingers red. I stare & stare  
at them: they are foreigners– 
 
to the guards  
I said: “Red... 
from berry–picking.”