I’ve been walking the streets of the dead
with a hesitation of you
swallowing my head.
I’ve seen your silhouette in the window.
I’ve felt your feet shuffle through my hair.
I should have known
not to hang around so long with you,
combing out the knots.
Brought me so far from the break wall
while my home pumps through my veins
like warm milk.

I never felt so quiet—
once, twice before
I’ve walked these dead roads;
the waves breaking on Lake St. Clair,
the color of my hair.
But your arm has become a noose
around my neck.

I fell asleep
in the dream.
I woke up
with your voice in my ears.
A man whistling with smoke in his breath.

10/01/2008

Author's Note: Revision of mix tape poem.

Posted on 10/01/2008
Copyright © 2010 Stephanie Lane Sutton