There's a whine inside her head
like a far siren, the other side of the
tracks,
the other side of the tracks and then
some
as the goldpink
moon beckons in a peachblue sky.
In a peachblue
sky she watches as "I" separates from "he and I".
This night will be a tunnel with no
light at the end.
This night will be the end of the end
of a long story.
This night will be the skin bruise that
will fade infinitely slowly.
This night will take the shape of a
body falling.
With the whine inside her head, she is
a motor thrumming.
Thrumming like a cloud of bees, she
can't find home.
Find home, she says, it's the place
where there is no light.
No light at the heart of the matter.
She instructs herself, take a shovel
and dig.
She instructs, the food in your hand
matters.
Instructs: believe in dawn.
Reflects: there is nothing in which to believe.
The whine is pulled by the gold hot
needle of loss,
silken whine threaded around each bone
of rib,
from rib through the heart's center,
puncturing the pubic bone at last but
never exiting.
Never exiting, the whine moving across
the tracks,
entering her ears like the ocean from a
shell.
JCWatson