Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Witching Hour


In September, he found his witching hour,
while the rest of the house was asleep
and I was the only one left
to switch out the records for him—

To sing “teenage wasteland” with him,
to top off his rum for him,
to light his cigars.

In September, it was cool outside
but his body stayed warm.
I sat in the cold with him,
rocked in the wind with him,
my eyes following the furious sway
of his body with him.

But he wasn’t furious with me.

Baba o’Riley excited my father.
“Doesn’t this get your blood going, honey?
“Don’t you just need to hit something?”

I watched him dance with it,
the heavyweight bag flying seamlessly
between his drunken fists.
I watched him with frozen veins,
with all the need in the world
to sit still, to never hit anything
like he could.

He took his last swaggered punch
and I jumped to break his fall—
clinging to hands that know
my blood all too well;
haunted by a breath
that once kissed me goodnight.

A Benevolent Ghost


You’re haunting me.

You, like everyone else
Like the astronaut
Who called on the girl next to me
When my hand was held higher.
Like the man in the movie
Who helped Charlie blast his way
Through the ceiling in a glass elevator
But would never, ever help me.

You’re haunting me like a plague,
Swallowing me like sour beer,
Licking me up from between your fingers
to help clean your newest scrapes.
What is it about blood that’s so
God damn satisfying to you?

You’re haunting me like
You have nothing better to do,
No one better to love,
No other way to sleep at night--
Thinking I’ll understand
If you would just wait till morning.

You’re haunting me:
Like a wicked poltergeist,
Like all the loving mothers I’ve ever met,
Like all the sweetest moments
That we may never have.

You’re a ghost that I’ve only ever seen before
when it’s chained inside of myself.