Lady Death does
not yell.
Not anymore.
Not haunting
crevices of my mind,
a lover scorned.
I watch her whisper, pull
and scream at others,
recognise the darkness
dragging at limbs,
the way their eyes catch
on me, linger with recognition,
like a memory they knew once.
When one has danced
long enough, her humming
rings in the echoing cavern
of one’s ears- is made visible
through another’s body
bobbing along to the familiar
melody.
I remember when we also had
a tumultuous relationship.
When we courted with windswept
hair and heart racing dares, whirling
so fast everything flurried into
a murky blur of colour.
But we’ve let go.
Instead, she is
A gentle presence.
A ghost that walks beside me.
A past
dance partner that strides
the perfect accompaniment to
my next steps before I think
to walk them.
She sits at the edge
of my table as I work,
swings her legs in my periphery, where
I could almost ignore her
if I tried hard enough.
She plays with my scissors,
peers down from rooftops,
turns to me-
a secret smile, as if
we share an inside joke.
Sometimes, she glides forward,
the lightest of touches against my cheek,
the press of lips against my own.
The curling, rich petal smell of myrrh,
her notes strumming the strings of my heart.
She steps back,
a space of invitation.
I step back,
a maw of ‘not yet’.
She smiles our smile.
I gather breath,
sensation,
myself.
I immerse myself in living,
a fish with a bleeding lip
swimming ardently with the
vicious desperation of a
second chance.
I love,
I eat,
and all the while,
I hide the taste of her
under my tongue.
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