In Darkness

falling into the arms of sleep as
she once did yours, the cold clasp
of Morpheus quieting her feverish
thoughts until she hears that
click in her head that makes
all go still.  The words stop.
the crack of ice floes in amber,
held in her hand, the blur of neon
across her eyes--she shakes her
bottles like castanets and
keeps time to the music--she
won't let you in--it is
all hers, winding, snakelike, sinuous,
around her brainpan, and the
needle-pricks spell out, in swollen
flesh, help me, help,
me
my mother, my father, the silver
spoon you gave me is blackened, flattened
with this disease of mine
that sickens me so, the
desire that plays along my heartstrings,
veins a conduit for rivers of
poison, this dark desire suffocating
every suffering moment
and still I shake my castanets,
count out the tablets like words
of love, yes, yes, yes, my little
my lovely ones, pale moons clattering away in your hollow music,
the sound ever receding

a finger points to the lines
written in the sky:   I have
died a hundred times or more, it is
an art, like anything else; I
do it so well, with the thick
finality finally muffling my words,
closing off my mouth for all time