The thief in the night that everyone speaks of
right beside me
in my bed,
powerless and hand tied.
I steal from him,
his swiftly vibrato.
I engulf his existence in the daylight,
taking him from the darkness
where he preys the most.
And I take and take
making sure I leave my mark,
in honor of the things he may have confiscated
from sad girls in their 20’s.
There is no place to hide from the exploitation of life.
Pretty illusions and tarnish-rimmed struggles
have ruined us.
The taste of metallic on our tongues,
aging of our organs,
we deteriorate in our sleep.
While we’re making love,
while we’re on our way to work, we share our dying bodies
with the world.
Losing a lapse with memories,
our strained eyes give up on us,
We dilute the present to forget we have to die
but it doesn’t forget us.
It watches from a distance,
whispering to us in our lack-lustered days.
Death is our mother’s warning
and our Daddy’s silence,
it awaits us
holding no grudges,
for our disregard.
My mother once told me to be sure
my coming was a sharp offense.
To drink and live what have destroyed some men.
She says, “We died a hundred times,
ate thunder and tasted the rain,
drawn down the moon
and called the sun by name.”
I kneeled at her waist as she anointed me.
She sang for the trees to awake,
to let them follow me to you and
let their branches sway like my hips
and chase your coloured phantom on the air.
She had said, once I found you
to be all woman
A luminescent aura pulsates on through the lazy days, and the calling nights
of clashing tongues and mocking vagueness.
The room, an impractical haven with ghost colored walls and buzzing sounds
from the whirling fan are nearly deafening.
This is a special place however. Here is where he explodes me
into glittery matter. Here I lay my existence on the line
for the beard, the hands, the naked chest, and the easy limbs.
I am a moth to his flame.
He flashes, then there’s smoke and then I die.
I’m left there on this bed and in this room with no form,
no structure. Just a pheromone, of stinking woman in love.
the iced coffee sitting beside me
sweats in the heat of the sun,
i grab for it
the sharpness of the emerald grass
tickles my backside of my hand,
it sends me back to a faint memoir of
in your embrace,
back kisses and warm skin,
my libido red hot,
my labia minora, a coveter
for his tongue.
my body goes hot from the thought
or from the mild rays above.
in fact, he reminds me of the sun,
leaving me in infatuation with
and a dry wind
he’s like summer