Wake
25 Wake Wake her at midnight—will she wake? The damp in her hair, her wince and wild recoil, her eyes rolled back against electric glare, the shock of air. The sheet pulled back provokes a sudden chill, revives the shrouded sleeper, lying there. She, half-covered, barely breathing, lies intact and cold, beyond you now. She will not, she can not, you must not, touch, rouse— oh wake her and save her at midnight, beloved, risen to walk the hallway, lurch and drag, her face crease-stitched with sleep, her eyes’ light guttering. She jerks her bird head to the side, spits rage, comes toward you sliding one hand down the wall. Again the stale breath, the terrible thirst. Claim her then, wanton, ancient and wild, her face so white and drawn. Now she sees you, she screams: something in Assyrian, a curse. ...
OR
