March 12, 2005

Werewoman

Between a restless toss
and a sleepless turn,
between a wet dream whimper
and a nightmare moan,

she breathes
she breathes

Between the endless cups of coffee
and the useless mugs of milk,
between my silky, wrinkled bedsheets
and my damp and tingling skin,

she stirs,
she stirs.

Between my late night written lines,
and all my softly spoken lies,
between the heavy pre-dawn silence,
and the muffled midnight cries,

she wakes,
and I
can hear
her

howling,
howling
for release,
for remembrance,
for rebirth.

She sends me
into the streets,
prowling,
searching,
hunting

for release,
for remembrance,
for rebirth,
for her,
for myself.

But,

between the cries of the wolves
and the shrieks of city traffic,
between the fires of the cavewomen
and the red lights of the prostitutes,

far too many lifetimes
have passed. And so,

she weeps,
she weeps,

and lets me
sleep awhile,

between synthetically scented sheets
and chemically crafted sweets,
between pre-programmed, painless choices
and digitally dulcet voices,

between all our civilization
and all our discontent,

until the next full moon.


Spring 2005.

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