Scatter

Her words scatter

the dark animals of his sleep,

and out on the nocturnal avenues,

these constellations

the fissures of a deep need.

Sometimes the girl hates those things

that come too close

and draw their hurt

like a curtain about her room,

and in the dark

would have her listen, understand.

For she has her own dark ribbons

to bind tight the beckoning night.

What she has is hers alone

and the boy sent out

into the reviving cold,

what will he find when he comes back,

when he’s shed the chrysalis

of his insect fears?

She’s had time to hold the night

in her own lungs,

and in her breast there’s space again

for the animals of his sleep

to clasp on to.

 

Copyright Ricky Barrow 2014

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