The secondhand stops
pacing above our heads
when he softly sings
insults into my ear.

The flannel strings of his
overcoat wave in the breeze
of my ceiling fan.
Such an unusual shade of gray.

When his mouth opens,
a thousand white doors creak
open before my eyes.
He rolls out the red carpet.

On my back, I watch him
praying before me
to the Virgin Goddess.
He offers my blood as sacrifice.

My grandmother's music box
is playing a tune down
the hall from this hole.
I want to lie in her metal casket.

She is here in this bed.
After eight years in the ground,
her dirty fingers rest on my skin,
and she is ashamed.

He leaves for the ships.
I find his name
printed next to a dated picture
on his license.

01/04/2004

Posted on 04/08/2006
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