I carry a bomb in my bomber jacket,
give the red gift to you as if a lost rose.
The one you always wanted, suspected

Dead, your deepest desires incubating.
My red gift to you, many muted years,
the calendar days smoked into oblivion.

My own terror within my own cells,
never understanding our languages, nor wars.
My outstretched hand, broken dove of peace,

Broken like bread with the holy machinations
of gesture and incense. You walked solo into a room
full of perfect, abhorrent strangers,

Your funereal overcoat blocking all sunlight.
This was enough for the infant was heavy,
Sworn to childhood secrecy where I detonated

The big guns of self, strapped inside,
secured with black tape as if a final letter.
Knowing the death of us would end all things.