The Ghost of Johnnie Taylor Reflects
A poem for Wednesday
At night she would toss rocks at my window
that disturbed the dust & left scars
like the nails of one’s hands. & I would leave
my room to unhinge the latch
leading to that which I swore not to welcome.
In any event the act of opening
one’s door to another’s hunger implies
the absence of light.
Sometimes the call of one’s howl is the only
distinction between predator & prey.
& I have watched the gallop of a sheltered hound
lose himself across the intersection
of the busiest street summoned by that
which was not love.
In truth a warm body is the source
of every song’s demand. Regardless
of how the bedsprings cry out. Or who or what
enters the floral sheets.
What's Your Reaction?
