I dreamt I was a leper and woke
up with no voice. I dreamt I had
a lover and woke up without hands.
What are the things the keep
you up at night? Who is left
behind once your eye is open?
I look to the blue face in the
mirror for an answer, but she
is voiceless too, wearing nothing
but a silent smile and oil paint.
I have known her all my life
but couldn't see her until now,
the sunken, shrieking visage,
eerily familiar, like a handyman
who knows my father's name.
There are things we try to forget,
and things we cannot unknow:
this is of the latter. This is the face
of Death, the inescapable; this is
Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow. This is
You, now; so scream all you want.

After The Fire

On the surface nothing
is left unburnt but dust
off the shelves and
discover a world within
itself, in the lower attics
we birthed the amnesiac
allure of a fresh start, or

what is whispered when
everyone is watching; alone
we sing songs and remember,
live in picture frames, tattoo
birthdays on our breasts,

live gathered about a pyre
of memory until someone
is brave enough to light

a match!