The night has a pulse, and he
is what makes it race.
Streaming light and booming bass,
he likes to watch this world shake.

He only ever dresses in shades of bruise,
black and blue, purple too —
he won’t admit he’s still convinced
that lends him an ancient royalty
none of these sinuous sweating souls
could ever dream.

Because they are all under his thumb,
the lonely, fucked-up dancing ones;
they tuck the moon under their tongues,
don’t care whether they ever see dawn come.

And he will drink from all their shattered cups,
accept no less than raving splendor,
wine and blood-soaked surrender
until the sun comes up.

I.
Ari, plump lips ever plumper from a busy night
hair mussed after his hands,
cries aghast
at the sight of the empty half of the motel bed.

Her wallet, 18-karat bracelet and pride
are missing from the nightstand.

She, with her Southern hospitality,
fell for the sting.
But it’s her heart that swells.

II.
Nessa is haunted by her little girl’s laugh,
echoing round her too-big house,
at odds with the shrieks
of her last burning moments.

When her husband comes home from deployment,
she takes one look at the hands
that did not open the smoking doorway in time,
smiles sweetly.

The red homecoming carpet, well,
his arteries provide that.

III.
Penny buries herself in yarn,
pokes holes in her hope with her needles,
tries not to think about how many Bobs and Jacks and Jerrys
will be at the bereavement group.

Penny always brings her knitting.
The widowers always lie.

She always thinks he’ll come back.

The boy who loves you
is a poet, he
sings songs to the trees
and the birds
and the water;
sings his heart out and
writes you into
someone a lot softer
than you think you are.

It doesn’t matter that he’s
seen you laid bare, he’s
seen all you are and
all you’ve ever been, and still
he chooses to believe
in the person you can
become, and that makes you
weaker than anything
before him.

He’d follow you anywhere,
would follow you into the
jaws of death and
bring you back as if
anything else was unthinkable.

(or so he says)

You hope you’ll never have to
find out if he’s lying or not.

The Gods called your name
and the seas turned dark;
the earth quaked with power.

You looked up at Olympus
screaming at the gates;
“What will I become?”

The Gods fell silent, then-
with a thunderous roar replied;
“Who are you now?”