Jane Morton
If I close my eyes,
refuse the morning
the light falters, becomes
a veil of warm blood.
The stars
haven't left us, but they hide
their faces,
bashful or ashamed of us, saying nothing.
I stare through the window,
through my eyelids,
willing
the sun to retreat, or else
come closer
than ever before, grow hotter, brighter
than anyone could stand,
much less us. I will
fire, everywhere. Red blooms
just beneath my skin, obsessed
with existing, being
or waiting to be touched.
In the new night
I become my eyes; I go
where they go.
It doesn't matter,
my body becoming wax, slipping
between your fingers,
your legs, away
from itself. It doesn't matter
that I'm bleeding.
I've been so tired,
Carrying myself around.