My bed is too big for my body.
It haunts me and my belief
that every hollow space must be filled.
I lie in the darkness
waiting for white saints to come,
but sometimes I see skulls in the shadows,
and my mouth begins reciting
“our father….,”
until my eyes close and my mind forgets to dream.
I will wake up at least six times.
Each one the blankets lay shriveled against my side,
a grotesque caterpillar to my unique vision,
and I want it dead in my sleep.
The clear blood of sweat oozes
from beneath my veins
till I wake up cold,
emerged in an ever graying blue
That peeps from the crevice of my curtains.
I’ve never seen the sun rise,
that red wizard and its sick enchantments
hiding away victory.
If this were Rome, I’d see chariots
and the earth would swallow my soul
until only my body could blossom.