unveil themselves in dark.

They hang, each a jagged,



silken sleeve, from moonlit rafters bright

as polished knives. They swim



the muddled air and keen

like supersonic babies, the sound



we imagine empty wombs might make

in women who can’t fill them up.



A clasp, a scratch, a sigh.

They drink fruit dry.



And wheel, against feverish light flung hard

upon their faces,



in circles that nauseate.

Imagine one at breast or neck,



Patterning a name in driblets of iodine

that spatter your skin stars.



They flutter, shake like mystics.

They materialize. Revelatory



as a stranger’s underthings found tossed

upon the marital bed, you tremble



even at the thought. Asleep,

you tear your fingers



and search the sheets all night.