Bough

They press their hands to bark like bone,
Where something breathes beneath the stone.
A mouth of marrow, slick and wide,
A god, a groom, a wretched bride.
The queens, with bellies split and swayed,
Are fed to roots in milk and shade.
Their fingers twitch, their skin unseams,
As life is poured through amber streams.
The men, unmade, with hollow hips,
Sing hymns through bloody, cracking lips.
No seed, no blood, no gift of bone,
Just hands to serve the swelling throne.
The tree uncoils, the tree bestows,
Its limbs a web, thick with throes.
It drinks, it gives, it hums and grieves,
It makes, unmakes, and never leaves.
And when the queens can swell no more,
Their husks are hung from boughs before
The next are draped in bridal thread,
To kiss the bark, and wed the dread