Christy's Sleep

like a dancer with a walking stick, i wait for dawn
to crawl, heroically, from your womb, strong
and noble as a caring man can.
with murder on his breath, and filth below his toes.

 

when winter eats the last desserts,
and heaven washes the sheets where
we both used to lay. i sometimes want
to say something after the desire to say is gone.

 

every time i taste my blood,
like wax paper melted thick in bubbles
behind my tongue, i think of birth of words.
and what knifed silence holds in store.

 

like a man left in the rain, for nights,
a chewed cigar, damp with sickness that
survived the dew, i hold the door
for you, and only you, wake up everywhere i call home.

 

every venture is a straight jacket for our love.
when you try to think, when you wait and say,
"just wait." my heart always says, no.
i cannot wait, but for you i wait....

 

until the world that you invent sees
that i and i alone, have caught the water
in my steps, and left the unicorn a horn
to call her mother, and her pets, when nothing else is wrong.

 

so put your pretty fingers in the ink
that i have bled. and tell our precious fortunes
in the cards that stick like blood to your cautious hands,
and soothes, like art, but truth, your fretting head.

and rest.

Copyright © Rhys Owens | Year Posted 2012

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