So Far All Asleep

And at dark, dark midnight,
Esmerelda cried to the children,
"don’t drink the isopropyl, my dears,
you’ll go blind for sure!"
but who listens to thistlevoices and greyflesh
anymore?

Esmerelda doffs her hat to passing strangers,
to the plaguemen and their fiendish carts,
the wagonwheels creaking to the steady rhythms of misery.
She waves hello to everyone, man, bird, or beast,
even at the ravens that perch
on the crucifixes just beyond the city gates:
wings in the sunset like blackened blades
fresh from wounds.

Esmerelda gathers flowers from the ruined citadel,
where the great gaping portals pretend they still hold glass
and the dome (now gone) sends naked ribs toward the stars.
She peels seeds from morning glories and moonflowers,
something for the garden at home.
There are old hands buried beneath the rubble,
testaments to some tragic final destruction.
But weathered bones keep secrets better than old women.

Esmerelda spits tobacco juice and crosses herself,
whispering the seven blessings of the Iroquois,
as she seats herself for dinner:
old Emmet, gone these many years, still holds his place at the table,
in memory if not in fact.
He was shipped out on a barge, aflame:
a good Viking funeral, a fond farewell to the dead.

Esmerelda whispers softly as she rummages through the chest
of souvenirs:
a noose, a razor, a bottle of pills with the faded name Marilyn Monsomething
on the label.
Souvenirs of famous suicides, gathered together,
some semblance of peace.
She cooked dinner in the oven where Sylvia tried and failed,
and swoons to the tunes of a thousand screaming fans
while she washes dishes.

Eventually, Esmerelda sleeps.