THE NIGHT SCHEDULE

 Sadness tip toeing around my nights

 in its black kefta, 

hair embellished with red blood clips

while I try to find solace in a dog eared book I stole from my dead grand mother's shelf.

the sixth cigar in ten minutes

it's ashes on my cleavage bright grey, merging effortlessly with my  skin.

His creamy little face I pinned 

in the west of my memory,

aching,  my mouth tastes copper.

Pain,an exotic jelly fish in the black

it's unholy teeth piercing the third cell of 

my cerebrum ,chopping the last ion of 

his silk smooth voice. 

the narrow street of hope owls singing "everything will be fine"

moths blocking the way,

I stand before Lethe. 

in stillness I drown

pebbles in my pocket 

never intending to speak another word,

 the bone of my tongue heavy with spit. 

A cry blooms , rotten and helpless 

but fails to move 

as I put down a rolled carpet 

inside my crushed wind pipe. 

Hidden in the rosebush a white serpent

, the keeper of graveyard

it's slender tongue in two

kissing one small pinecon.

Regret, is my old Nannie 

who holds me in her veiny hands

 and rinse my soul with a big black soap.

She cuts the cake into two, 

worms pressed in them 

and weaves a new dress like

 a spider with white pupils.

And when she slaps my left cheek, I look

right into her cold eyes and 

with no second thoughts 

I turn the other cheek, 

because that's what my mother taught me.


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