Miguel Murphy

Masakatsu

My first swing
landed in your shoulder;

the second

halfway through your neck

having failed again

completely

the ceremonial beheading—

Your amateur

younger lover

kneeling before Koga

Hirayasu in
20 inches of intestine,

a sickness.
A metaphysical surface.

Commit
your dark grimace,

my reflection.
A face floating—

Curious
in red silence,

this.

Opulent

tapestry,
dint and opera,

ripped drum.
You are the wound;

the world.
What have I done?

Your life has been a lie.

Die. Don’t die.

The Black Calla

The darling of Napoleon

saw writhing faces frozen

in a dream. Dante: “Thou didst
our being dress in this sad flesh; now strip it

all away.” Starved concentration

I had never seen until

the eldest of the count’s four sons.

A statue; the tyrant

lily! Smudged fingerprint of someone

forced to eat his own children.

Stale Vial. Drain.
The Devil’s Droplet. Vein.

The flower imprisoned

in the freezer. . .

That February, at the Met:

Ugolino and his Sons, 1861.

Carpeaux’s exquisite grimace

like an amulet.

Randall Mann