Alone in the Flood

I had always known it would finish

in death. He rose to his feet, the mirror

catching his reflection, trapping

him in its ephemeral prison. Senescent, my

eyes grasped their own reflection, scalding

tears running over my cheeks

down to the white pillow- my body

alone in the flood, flotsam upon

the rising water, exposed

to the sun. He left, his cell

unable to hold him. I remained,

dead and breathing, the last petal

dangling from the inflorescence.

A Dream Quiescent

It is better to be dreaming than alone,

she whispered in my ear like splinters

of wood. I gazed into the reflection of her

standing behind me, that abysmal

darkness, and I saw the smile she

imprinted on the wall as if the next three

hours would pass without existing.

A new life is waiting, she whispered again,

calling me from sleep, Together

we'll walk without waking, quiescent.

Waking Alone

A cold trumpet morning wakes

me from dizzying sleep, climbing

slowly up into the fir outside

my window. Frost cracks

the panes of glass separating me

and the world. Inside

my head I scratch lines and erase

the dust from blackboarded walls

in furious pensiveness. Yellowing

white dust attacks my fingertips

and the front of my pantlegs,

drying the life from inside out.

Drying the life I remember from days

past and almost-forgotten. I see her

face washing away in the rain,

a child's drawing on the steps up

to the front door. I stretch my hand

toward the window and touch the cold

glass, hoping to melt away the pain

that remembering exhales.

Still, she used to say, the wind

will never blow you away. A leaf

drifting from branch to earth, browning

along the margins. Centrally yellow,

fading. Into the soft morning

I blink and let go.

Within, Satisfaction

Under the table, I dream
as the windows rust with falling
rain. I dream that come
morning, no man on horseback
will come to save the day. No,
not this time, in this world
where the street lamps turn
to scaffolds at dawn and crowds
gather and cheer with eyes
sewn shut, mouths filled with sand.

From under the table, I see her
legs smooth beneath the bottom
of her skirt. Her feet untroubled
and feeling. I reach my arm
toward her, the air between us
engulfing my skin like flames

for I shall touch not the anointed.
If the dead rise again it will be without
satiation, I repeat under my breath,
and all the world will see the morning
of my birth. Her feet leave red holes
on the wood as under the table, I see her
walk, legs hastening toward
the window, looking
toward the scaffold, expecting
a familiar face: her own.

Nocturne 118

From within the darkest rooms, her

eyes, melting into the night, force

their gaze upon the corner of my skin.

She wanders through the haze

and sits without sound upon the water,

floating fragmented throughout

each breath of air moved from my lungs

and lips. I hold her

still until she stops whispering,

her lips simplified in the darkening

wasteland. I unfold

the papers from my back

pocket, reading and re-reading

penned lines to a love long dead-

she never touched my arm. I

never told her I loved

her that night without knowing

her name.

She slipped behind the curtain

and bowed her solemn face

to the emptiness all around, welcoming

the coming storm.

I, Too, Waited for the World to End

He never looked at me

as he walked through

the arched doorway that evening

in the rain

nearly four and a half years ago.

He never looked at me

as he entered

our home all those years

through the drought

nearly four and a half years.

He never looked, but he came.

He came, not like the visitor

that he was. He didn't clean his

shoes on the mat outside the front

door. He came

as though he lived there,

and he never looked. Not at me.

Without looking at me he

climbed the stairs one at a time,

not hurrying. He walked

one step and another to the top, where

he would find her room and her,

waiting for the world to end.

The handle turned with a click

and the door screamed gently open

to her and her waiting. He closed

the door sighing softly. He always

closed the door to her room

when he came.

He came without looking at me,

never looking at me, as he

tracked mud up the stairs to her room

those nights in the rain. She waited

for the world to end. He came.