The Dying Body Chronicles 13: A SPACE

The space to eat the world whole,
each word a star to paint the night

sky filled with emptiness. The walls
thicken in the gelatin night,

sticking to skin, to nostrils
& mouth like muffled screams,

paralyzed inside the binds
of the many hands taut against

torso & limbs. Bodies in contact,
hot & weary, surging like drowning

ships, prows fingering the moonbeam
knife of night. Move away from

the sluggish nightmare, the sludge
trapped like a prehistoric housefly

in ice, melting slowly in that
forest of sad hungers. Like

galley slaves, we paddle our
nightmares then shudder awake

in the self conscious blush of dawn
to find us still chained together,

unhappy, untethered, fingering
our claws, ready for another day.

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