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| missy church |  | 1. Thief There is a soft breath in my home Moving lightly against the possibility Of my blighted consciousness, Stealing the darkest part of night's sleep. His boots, thick with muddy work Pad silently against his work jeans And the wrinkled width of his belt Moving from room to room Prowling forward and back In awkward time to The sound of my heavy breath Blowing dreams into sheets. Alluding the loose from floor boards I rise in my dreams forcing out A small squeak that resonates As a howl in my head, Scream muffled in night - I clap my hands in an attempt To raise my helper demons to Bring this murky story alive. 2. Trouble I’m in trouble with the law again. The wild rider who runs my dreams Has tracked a trail of day old blood And rotten thoughts of masturbating With my mothers shampoo bottle. These are nights when I bed down With the drunk of myself who Bumps in the night fighting Stability with a sharp stick And an empty smashed glass. The frontal lobe sifts through Daily fibres of pregnancy tests, Tampons’ plastic sheaths, A walk along the bay vomiting, And visual snips with no words. The crumb laced digits finger Dictionaries of discarded worries. They are stored in the creases Of knitted night brows Creating a dialogue of rolling eyes And deep longing breaths That drive us vertical into the dark Clapping against empty air And screaming silence, Attempting to drive away The stranger who has Taken to my head. 3. XXI My footfalls are hexed And deliver Morse code To the angels of death. Their vibrations trim through The third floor and transmit Wicker versions of a song To those who are already gone. At night now, I bind my feet In woolen gauze To shut out the hosts Who sing these graven tunes Through the hollows of my bones Like the devil's own flute. 4. XXII I sleep in the stink of my Father's habit And dream of off putting memories That never breathed the air of reality. I read my Father’s books for breakfast And snuggle into the blanket he coveted On his couch for serious sleep. His belongings fit into a 3x5 box That fits through my apartment door. Most items broke in the mail. Each breath, it seems, is expired for him Lost on a Sunday corpse wrought With despair and ashen thoughts. | |
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