Shadow

Her cloak was made of night

And sewn up with spider webs.

Stars decorated the tendrils of cloud

That clasped around her waist.

Her face was painted with shadow,

Her nails with swamp water,

And the moon hung from her neck.

Tiny shards of ice pierced her ears,

A rope of snow around one wrist,

A ring of fire around her little finger.

Lavender flowers were tied in her hair

And her pockets were full of rocks.

You could see mountains in her eyes

And swear you heard a wolf howl

At the sound of her voice.

With one look, she could show you the world.

Joy Ride

Smoke hangs in the air,
A thick, dark scent.
Green Day on the radio
Beer spilled on the leather.
They look frightening,
Howling with laughter
Eyes reflecting headlights.
A heart in fog on the window,
Pressing their mouths together
As up front he pushes harder
On the gas. Stick shift, white knuckles,
New song comes on.  I look at the moon
Through the window-wipers crescents.
Someone sings along, badly.
To be young is to understand
That this is all there is.
This is the world.

Absence

Your flowered dress is draped

Across the back of the chair.

Your DVD is paused in the player

And your book is open on

The nightstand. Your water glass

Is in the sink, your toothbrush

In the dolphin mug, and your CDs

Stacked haphazardly atop the radio.

The carpet still has vacuum lines

Pressed into it, the way you liked,

And the box of your cereal is half-full.

I sit on my half of the bed

(your socks are still down at the end)

And wait to remember how to breathe.

Everything is here, except for you.

Gluttony

I creep in the night.

I am the tapping

On your window,

And I am the footsteps

Too close behind.

I am the boogeyman

And the nightmare.

I leer out of mirrors,

Lurk under beds,

Hiding and waiting.

“Who’s there?”

I devour your fears,

Ravenously, insatiably.

Mud and blood,

Anger and terror—

Breakfast at midnight.

The End of the Line

The skeletons leer at me

Bleached bones on red velvet

Whispering, whispering

The full moon swells

(white as the bones)

Gray clouds and rock outside

Dust hanging heavy within

A piercing whistle blows

The child skull giggles

Blood bubbles out of my ear

(red as the velvet)

Our train rolls on.

The moon will never set

And the rock will never crumble

The skeletons watch

As the blood runs down my cheek.

They whisper.

The Night Driver

I am the night bus driver. I am the king of the moon and the stars and the shadowed gravel. I am the master of the metal monster, and I control the beating hearts of the sleeping strangers. Hidden from the sun, I fly.

A small flock tonight: a man with frown lines and a briefcase and a mis-buttoned suit, a frazzled woman with a sleeping baby and a child that stares unblinkingly out the window, and a girl no older than sixteen with beautiful black hair. I wonder what she is dreaming of. Their journeys are parallel with mine, intersecting for only a moment. Our lives are tendrils of a spider web. None of us is the fanged weaver.

They sleep. They will not see the neon stars turn into real ones, the orange streetlights turn into a snow white moon, the concrete buildings become breathing trees. The child will see, though. The children are the only ones who notice as the world changes around them. That is why we fear them.

I could flip the bus off of the side of the road if I wanted. No one could stop me. It would take less energy than stopping the bus, less energy than changing the channel so that static isn’t humming on the radio. Just a flick of a wrist, and the sleeping baby and the girl with the beautiful hair and all the others—lost. For three hours and eighteen minutes, I own them.

Streetlights are becoming more and more frequent, and I can see the lights of the town winking in and out of view. Their journey will be over and they will be free, soon. I do not begrudge them this. I decided to let them go. This has always been my decision. Will it always be? I am the king of the moon, the master of the metal. I control and I fly. I am the night bus driver.

Summer

We eat the flesh

And spit the seeds,

Leave nothing but the rinds.

Ruby juice stains our chins

And white tanks—

All the rage that year—

And the wood of the deck

Where we sat

And talked

And burned our faces.

I fell in love that year,

With the sun

And glass soda bottles

And guitar music

And the idea of love.

We went wading in the stream,

Collected all the pretty stones,

And lost them on the way home.

That summer

Looked like heaven

Sounded like an old piano

And tasted like watermelon.