A Cold Night

by Lacey Smith

A Cold Night 09.07.03

a weak hinge holds back the pain as it pulls inward,
breaking apart at the edges and swelling at the
seams. the scraping of metal and black, soft petal
skin like ten thousand stars danced across each
pore, sweeping their lips in slow kisses back and
forth until the texture exploded: something new
and bright and unattainable.
a whisper is a wish made without an image, a light
that burns out at first sight, twirling around the barely
there imprint of things you see when you close your
eyes at night, the cold grasp of the air as it encircles
you in its untrustworthy manner, pulling at your limbs,
asking you for just one more dance--oh the night is
so long--oh won't you hold me tightly and let me rest
my head just so--you smell so good--where do things
like you come from
the question mark hanging like a pregnant pause in the
rafters, shaking its fist at whatever passes its way.
solitude. the musky scent of forgotten lines on the
ceilings and wood floors, dusting at the pirhouettes
placed permanently in the polished ground, so clean
you could see your smile and wouldn't it be beautiful to
have feeling again?
loneliness is a piano key, something minor and destitute
that strikes the heart in ice, something not
quite filled to the top, something carbonated and blue
and all encompassing like an old dress in a chest of
exclamations you wear proudly with your new patent
leather shoes.
the night is coy and demure and begs again--oh please
come out and play, the air is temperate and we've so
many things to catch up on--oh please, don't look
at me with that face--smile the way I remember you:
but in fact, you would not know how to be remembered
for the past is a blur of things you yourself cannot
draw upon
it is a tiny rustle like that of a leaf, we are quiet again
counting our limbs as casualties, tying back our hair
in ribbons of blood, pulling back our expressions with
half-halted stares, tiny flaws, the curves of the hands
of indigenous, hard working people. we cup their words
and drink of their souls.
it is the slow burnout that even night would give up on.
even night pulls back as if to say:
we are all tired, so sleep if you will
for death is always a life in progress.


Posted on 12/12/2003
Copyright © 2021 Lacey Smith

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