Are All of Your Nightmares the Same?

For six months I pretended not to hear
the dead. My father roamed through hallways,
he even sat down next to me, but I wouldn’t let
him speak so, haunted we stayed.

The song says, you make me want to cry,
but my son sings you make me want to try.
I’m not sure how to block out the dead.
The song says through, through like a bullet. He walks
through, through me. Yes, surely, I am haunted.

In windows I see shadows, turn around
to only air; feel invisible insects crawl across me
and I cry out through sleepless days.
You make me want to cry; you make me want to try.

Please don’t disappear. A trap I wrap my children in silk.
Spin them until they shine in creaseless cases.
I prick their fingers, so they know they’re mine and
marvel at the ruby red. To the mirror I whisper, you can change
any time you want to and beware of evil men.

You are not theirs.
You are not theirs.
You are not theirs.
The song said orchid, but I sang poison.