The chill of the wind has crept inside
between the seams in these old walls.
The damp is even inside the sheets,
which cling like sodden shrouds,
and my chest has gone crystalline and cold.
I wear a coat that is dirty
and only just too tight.
Sweat gathers under the seams.
I am always too hot
and it weighs me down.
It clings in the wrong places
and I trip and can barely walk.
The sleeves catch my coffee cup,
but no one can see the stains.
The buttons never fit in their beds,
and I am so often confused.
On the days I can peel it off,
its damp has seeped into my skin
and into my hair like stale cigarette smoke
and it leaves little spiders on every dress I own.
Sunday, March 9, 2014
The sky is absent its satellite
and the velvet quiet hangs heavy
over black-cherried grass and trees
and their glowing, animal eyes.
Even the glare of the snow is banked
and the chuckle of the stream at the Crossroads
is jaded, the laugh of the oldest woman at a dying party.
As the hours dim, an electric aura ignites the air,
a slow and lurking burn,
as hot as the scrape of ice when it draws blood
to mark the stones below.
I lower my eyes
and I touch the ground
and my fingertips spark
and my bones root deep
as I breathe in the Night.
There is a touch on my brow,
and my mouth opens, and my womb.
The dark slides in and fills me,
and it expands, that blackest place in my throat and belly,
and it sizzles and spreads in my flesh,
and it awakens what it finds
and coaxes it up to a roar in the blood
that beats its fists
to break free from the surface of my skin.
The world is dark.
And I am dark,
and I quake and hum
as if I am twisting in sheets.
I hear a voice
and a catch of claws
and the rock of an empty cradle.
The air is rent and whipped,
by sword and scale.
I am silk and steel.
I do not open my eyes
where the black within pulses pounding half-light against the lids.
And I am not afraid.
And she has come.