Barren

Your lashes leave me naked in the square.
But I have bled on prouder streets than these
so, my executioner, beware!
The song that haunts you through the trees
as you ride home to comfort
will not leave you at your door.
The warm maid brushing back her hair
who greets you with a kiss
knows my tune well,
and hums it under-breath
while your wine sours in your cup.
Smiling, she serves your dinner up
and need not ask what sound your ear
mulls over and over
like witches laughter
nor whom it was
your rope cut in the square.

Her tongue
has tasted your death many nights
while you asleep beside her
dreamed me
your tormentor.

But she and I have come this way
before.