Our fear of the dark never leaves us
and the leaf cover of darkness
wakens the dark in us, the shadow
that stalked our childhoods and hovers patiently
in our blood. Such a tremor rises in us then:
the knowledge that we have not outgrown our roots.
In the early-morning fog – in the white sift of warm air
lifting from the broken and never-to-be-healed past –
we see what has been hidden we hear
the whispered stanzas of ghosts.
Stroke the night with your fingers breathe in
her sweetness and her chill. She will open you again
to the realm of memory your body will be blessed
by her dark silky tongue.
