The moonless night drawls on
long after the last sweepings
the unseen owl makes of treetops
have drowned in the emptying
reaches of the blind and icy wind.
I speak in blunt whispers to
the mirror of window glass,
my gray breath clasping at your name.
It is an age old story,
its big feet trample the gardens
that stretch between home and
forest, between the scent
wet wood leaves a fire and
the warm pause of water
trickling down your belly.
This tale wanders between
the dark insistence that stitches
constellations out of the stellar
dot-to-dot and
the salty triumph of that first summer’s kiss:
the metronome of reach and grasp.
Wide awake, the new dawn
crawls bitter like chocolate
before my circled eyes.
A single crow chokes on
the remnants of the night
birthed in its hollow throat,
singing like a knife.
My words spider like dead maps,
full of mermaids and monsters, and
you are a nation out of myth
now sunken, blue beneath the sea.
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