White Water

This is my thousandth prayer,
my song of dualities.

This is how I regret,
anointed with the irrevocable,
my heart not touched
but whispered upon
until its skin is breath dampened,
open as a baby's eyes
to the light of dreams.

This summer my dreams come heavy
and I wake with creased skin;

I see open pores and powder,
the purest prison morning light
that keeps me alive,

the white gray before morning sun.
It is the glow of lovers who left,
forgetting I never smelled like thyme,
only of a perfume they didn't like,
a bed they couldn't sleep on.

It is the aegis and battery I leave
in elevators, in hotel lobbies
with dried palms and revolving doors
and I told them, make me your hotel,

I'm your top floor suite,
my numbers are magic
and my doors stay unlocked.

Trust me. I am your wife, your secret lover,
the child you'll never have.
My psalms are sweet.

I am praying for you to come back.
I am cupping my hands for white water
that stayed in the pipes too long.


Duende 1994, Black Tie Press. All rights reserved.

Special Tribute Poetry

Blind Stitch
Chateau Marmont
Los Angeles Three AM
Mulholland Drive
Helen in Waiting
Jonathan's End
American Beauty


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