Ode of a Gravedigger

N. Abram

The final breath is an exhalation

Of rapture, of sorrow: the everything

That I embrace like a consummation.

I speak with the knife called Love. That sharp sting

Ascribed to the lonely—that herald, Death,

Whose aching hollow voice I now may claim.

Do we stare at the sky or peer beneath?

Remembrance rots. It is easy to maim.

Heaving gasps of the bitter air do leave

Our lips quicker than the kiss of lovers.

Your mouth!—your open, gaping throat! I cleave

To your gravestone. Fill my palms with clovers

If not your heart, if not your bones, if not

Our souls intertwined, our blood in a clot.

N. Abram has been writing since they were old enough to hold a pen. Their work centers around the relationship between carnality, desire, and spirituality. When asked what their inspiration is, they often cite their favorite horror movies in the same breath as Mary Shelley, though their creative focus leans toward poetry and nonfiction. In their free time, they can be found reading and listening to 70’s rock. You can find more of their work and contact information on Instagram at @hallowedhedonism.