SHE WEARS THE NIGHT

Inky black pupils,
her cupid shoots obsidian tipped arrows
With a raven’s grace,
she tears entrails,
panther nails slashing hearts,
unabashed teeth flashing.
Start to turn away and she’ll catch you.
Her self control is a mahogany sword handle,
a nocturnal animal,
she tempers her passion,
her soul is lacquered,
her look is the blade, sharpened true,
she wears the night like a tattoo.

Slightly parted, scarlet
her lips quiver with anticipation, excitement.
The music has started
and all she is and was and wants to be
rises up in her chest with the bass tremors,
alarmingly
attractive without the frills
peacock quills, paint or pills,
the nightclub lights spill on skin like milk,
red, green and blue combine,
photons dance inside her,
sliding high on a sound wave’s crest,
she wears the night like a transparent dress.

Impeccably frightened countenance,
she cowers when it’s time to dance
and backs into a candle-lit cloister.
The hollows of her home are filled with wolves,
the mind she owns is imaginative,
a wandering ship, wary of ghost shoals.
And most would walk the plank
for only one glance
at the body beneath her turbulent seas
straight back, brave breasts,
proud heart glittering in a locked chest.
She hides from the dark in a habit,
her armor of garments,
gloves and hosiery,
she wears the night like a rosary.

A rusted over weathervane
watches over her house,
always pointed in the same direction.
Frost cracks her tear-streaked cheeks
as she looks out through the window panes.
Translucent hands touch a pearly face,
cold porcelain perfection.
Memories of fall days drift down icy hallways
and cling to unworn clothes like dust
she brushes from old picture frames.
Too young to lay back in the cavernous depths
and cede her hopes to the ravenous breath
of all consuming time.
Is there nothing left but pain? she thinks,
self pitying, listening,
to the gentle rise and fall of her chest,
choked sobs, deep sighs,
and deep breaths.
Too vast is the dark for a frame so frail-
she wears the night like a veil.

Apple cider smiles
abound by the starting fire.
Fuel lacking, she stokes the embers
and red flames rise higher, air pockets in the logs cracking,
steam emanating,
the remnants of a hot shower.
She plays soul records and sips tea,
brushes the starlight into her hair and tells me
to lay my head in her lap
the sinewy soft embrace of her words
erases everything.
She’s felt lost in the past,
undeniably alone,
justifiably astray, but now she’s found a home
on a checkered couch, in a cedar room,
two bowls of soup and a click of spoons,
life toasted her health and she drank it,
she wears the night like a blanket