Every Viole(n)t Night
So, then.
Those flickering shapes annointing every viole(n)t night
were your blessing; and the spirit descending on my head
was not a dove, but a bat.
Bat: folding swingsets and shaving curls to my particular place
on the space-time continuum.
Blending realities for just an evening,
enough to remind me the way to walk out.
Are you insul(a)ting me with childhood comfort,
or developing a private mythology of symbols
to make me recognize with eyes
what my heart is too hopeful to believe?
This time he stayed cemented through the maelstrom,
and so did he break the inevitable crush?
I would wait until his memory dredged from my ears like sand.
When we sleep, unconsciousness is the bridge between our thoughts,
yet it is the duende filling my heart with rings.
I’m still that girl.
You don’t believe we’re safe yet,
reaching far into the future to pin this past to some eclipse;
dreading the distant evening where I can’t hear your tiny voice
in its supersonic alarm
so you’ll engulf me with the largest omen,
screaming in the bruising of each flex,
Get out. Get out.
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