|
The
Angel of Death sleeps beside me
At
night, her black hair, and dark eyes
Stare
at me like photographs I have
Hanging
from the wall, she is a skull
Grinning
constantly at me, she is smiling
And
her eyes flash every time she stares at me
I
am in love with her
I
want to go where she goes,
Where
normal women can never go,
The
place where we all meet in the end
The
harvest ground, the wet, cold earth. . .
There
is tiredness to this land
And
everything in me feels it,
From
the way I pour sugar in my coffee
Every
morning to the time it takes
For
me to close my eyes and remember nothing. . .
Everything
is nothing to that smile you have, though
I
want to go and find out where it comes from
Show
me.
11/25/90
THE
ANGEL OF DEATH
Continued
The angel of death speaks:
I
follow and talk to people also, you know. To their
Houses,
cars, to where they keep their pills, garages,
Guns.
I whisper to children as they walk along sidewalks:
I
tell them to run out in front of that passing
car.
Sometimes
they listen, then again, sometimes they don’t.
I
also talk to animals. I tell them the places where
The
most cars go through. I also follow strangers
Whenever
they’re together, especially when they start
Towards
motels. I say to one, "Hurry up, get it over
With,
one twist, and then leave the thing behind."
And
then there are the people who live alone, in tenement
Shacks,
who watch TV. I tell them I know a wonderful
Place,
without commercials, to drop everything behind
And
follow. Sometimes they do, then again, sometimes
They
don’t.
11/27/90
|
