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.