In the camposanto at night,
Jack Daniels is a good friend dying,
bones creaking like groans
coming out of the ground,
screams on the backs of crickets.
In the darkness, whispers seduce me
begging for release,
broken glass cuts a finger tip,
bloody dripping swallowed whole
like seals in the sea by a monster
they never see.
Tears growing in the damp air
from the pale dead, a beautiful dancer
still as a river of dust,
souls ride the chills on my skin,
Memories dissolve into holes filled
by the sounds of sacred grounds
covered by slabs written with entire lives,
the slap, slap sweep of a broom
looking for bodies to plant,
fear swelling in the mournful sounds
of wind chimes, more voices
begging for escape,
but what can I do?
even Jack has died,
his shards collecting in a pile,
joining the chorus
condemning me.
