Victoria Lawless
3 a.m.
He is waiting for me
at the bottom of my garden,
leeching scent from lilies.
His back is pressed against
the high stone wall.
Beaded in dew, spun silver by spiders,
his cheek is as pale as the moon.
Some nights he sings to me.
Dreams split from the weight
of his terrible melodies.
But tonight he has sewn his mouth
shut with twine snatched from roses.
I heard their stems snap,
the rip of petals.
He is raking the earth
with his long bony fingers,
grinding the heels
of his black boots into graves
Waiting for me
at the bottom of my garden
Page(s) 40
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