We spent that night passing through dreams,
paths leading us hazily down into the rabbithole,
until we found the question of
what...
Between sips of gin,
she tells of past lovers, friends,
memories of death and happiness.
Time's machete works cautiously through the brush,
demons wax sympathetically
before her eyelids shut tightly,
warding off all insight,
all I am...
And I've heard these all one-hundred times over,
and yet, never...
The here, and now, and what.
She exists only in the constructs of these tales,
tall and short,
demons lurking in dark corners of her mind.
She hides behind beetlebug sweats,
between sips of gin and sailing darts,
and only this.
What comes next
Kevin Kilroy is an MFA student in poetry at Rutgers-Newark. Posted April 2008.
