Sing to me
O Muse, a real one. I wait
expectantly by the bedside. Then:
The sirens whisper at the doorway, and
the feathers in the pillowcase begin
to remember. A face flickering in firelight.
I see you clearly now – everywhere –
in the foil wrappers and half-empty
takeaway boxes, between NO ENTRY
signs and well-worn doormats
(and souvenir mugs too), lips puckered
and maw gaping… sight-less…
I want to lose myself in the depths
of your irises. Those yellow afternoons:
Your camera in the candlelight, click-click. The sirens shutter
to a stop. Mouths agape, I wait
for them with beeswax seeping
from my fingertips. Your smile in the gutter.
I know you will chain my own like this, hang it across
my cheekbones, and crucify: damn it
to a heap of misplaced receipts and
cheap birthday cards. Yet here I am,
Mama, as you called me from below.
How do I find myself always
waiting for you to
sing to me?