By muttering “the world is a parasomniac stage,”
then sleepwalking through it with a dagger,
you became this ekphrastic freak,
what they call
the untranslation of Lady Macbeth.
It was one of these Walpurgisnachts
that you had to wear
washed-up peach colored socks
before giving a soliloquy behind
your rain dripping marble sill:
“It’s the witching hour,” you said,
though it was the hour of the witch
in which you single-handedly mimed
the singular handle of the faucet;
opened but forgot to close –
and the sibilant Tay
overdubbed the water flow.
You didn’t mind the laughs of
a murder of the swans
that mocked you
for having a damned spot,
man-sized.
because you knew goddamn well
(but haven’t internalized yet)
that forms were not to be earned
but to be made peace with –
and
swans can’t afford a war.
so spit the moondust
stuck in your throat
then
dream to soar:
three witches
with prosthetic jaws,
hanging in
the Adam’s apple of the sky –
go wash this world unsexed
with gasoline
before asking
your smear-mongering audience
a round of applause.
three matches
left in the box –
who are you threatening
exactly with burning
to the ground in a strike,
My Lady?
RESURRECTION mag 