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.|
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Los Angeles Three AM
Helen in Waiting