Death Asks for Pictures on his Scythe

~ after Hugo Simberg; etching, 1897

It's as personal as getting a tattoo:
     only it's not a forearm or chest Death 

offers, but the face of his blade. 
     How patiently he waits, legs crossed, 

one bony arm draped over his lap, 
     as the artist bends over his work. 

He's sketching in the bodies of two 
     lovers oblivious to anything but

the sharp edge of their pleasure. 
     Though the scene is also scratched on

a surface of metal, I imagine the bright
     peacock blue of the bedspread, a faint 

breeze coming through the window. The stain 
     tender on their lips, a faint shimmer   

on their thighs ending in the darker 
     shadow of the V where they meet.