loss

The Midnight House

The night fades into me
or perhaps it’s the other way around,
but it makes no difference

because I always end up here,
on the other side of sunshine
between the hush of four walls
with scorched palms
and black feathers
in clenched fists.

I always end up here,
in the red room
with amber glow and body dust
where the nightmare never screams
and the worry whispers terror so loud
it makes the morning seem so far away.

I always end up here,
with nostrils caked in soot and ash
where it stinks of singed hair
and burnt skin folding in on memories;
where the door is ajar
and my eyes are glued shut.

The things that wander in.

The Wind

If you ask me about hope,
I’ll tell you about the days
when it knocks on my door
and I don’t answer.
When it comes to soften edges
and feed phantoms;
when it’s the cruel caller,
the corpse at the door;
when it waits dead.
On those days,
I don’t want what it brings,
so I become the wind
and I declare the storm.
I don’t want what it brings,
so I tear the roof from this house
and the sky falls in.
Old wounds shake loose.

Fetching Seeds

If you ask me about
being strong,
or resilient,
or brave,

I’ll tell you about unfolding edges
and rebuilding
from a million little pieces
despite the wreck that remains;

and digging the dirt to bedrock
to fracture and shatter,
splinter and break.

I’ll tell you about going downward
and inward, and meeting with sorrow
and speaking to pain;

and when hell spills from your bones,
that you’ll fetch seeds from the
dried-up darkness and grow gardens
from graves.

Ghost Story

I thought I saw you
out of the corner of my eye,
but it was just your ghost
playing tricks on my mind.

Your ghost lives
in my peripheral vision.
It whispers in my ear,
I’m still here.

It speaks to me through
muffled voices in crowded
places, in and around the
everyday shuffling.

It makes contact through
the eyes of countless strangers,
who I don’t really think know
what it is to be haunted or surely,
they would turn away and
spare me your gaze.

Wake The Spirits

Won’t you meet me in the after
where I remain and you are gone?
Where there are no angels, devils
or ghosts, but an empty house—
won’t you come?

Won’t you meet me in the void
where my heart betrays me
and hope survives?
Where the earth is frozen
and the sky is white—
won’t you come?

Won’t you whirl your wind around me
or place a whisper on my pillow?
Won’t you leave a song outside my door
to break the silence in this house?

Won’t you meet me in the winter
when it’s midnight and turned cold?
When I’ve outgrown the void
and outlived the hope,
when my soul believes you’re gone?

Won’t you meet me by the old maple,
where you left me when we were young?
We’ll tell stories and wake the spirits:
I want to know what you’ve been up to—
won’t you come?

But Darling, You Are Fading

Throw back the last of memories,
drain the well dry.
Get drunk on the spirits,
weep for the wreckage,
bleed bright red nostalgia onto paper
until the last drop of hope spills out.

This is where I let the ghosts let me go.

Start at the ache where the soul is sick
it sings with grief. As we were,
is no longer, I am what remains;
a raven-haired exorcist, I owe you
no ordinary death.

This is where I pull you from my bones.

Extricate myself from this old love
that knows my name and leaves
my late-night calls buried in my throat.
Tear your hooks from my heart,
turn myself inside out.
Face the wound toward the sun.

This is where I burn you out of my soul.

Clear out every hidden compartment
that I ever had you stashed away in.
Wipe down the walls, wash every
surface clean, until nothing is you
and everything is new.

This is where I leave the grave.

I never wanted to forget your face,
but darling, you are fading.