Secrets

I have a couple new poems in progress, but in the interests of catching up on some of the sleep I so desperately need after last month’s marathon, I am sharing an old poem today, from several years ago. I think this was around 2005.


SECRETS

Last night the darkness in your secret places
crawled across your silence into my dreams.
This morning I painted my nails the color of blood

clotting darkly in black hair curled flatly against
a head wound. The color is called blackberry.
Last night the darkness in your secret places

had me curled tight against you, hands pressed flat
against the black hair of your chest, muttering.
This morning when painting my nails the color of blood,

my hands ached, my hands shook. Crooked paint
on feet walking too many crooked miles.
Last night the darkness in your secret places

scratched eyes open to see the same as when closed,
dark images overgrowing my night like thorns.
This morning I painted my nails the color of blood,

the color of the darkest petals of the darkest rose
when they dry as blood dries, as dreams dry in that
last night’s darkness of all our secret places.
This morning I painted my nails the color of blood.

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2 responses to “Secrets

  1. A lot to think about in this one. Trying decide if two people have secrets or only one. I like the nail painting images and the notion of secrets impact being felt more acutely at night (causing isolation). A nice piece – thanks for sharing.

  2. And I need to think about your comments. They make me want to write a sequel. I’m not good with secrets, myself.

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