A cricket follows
you into the house.
You do not
know this at first.
But the echoed chirping of trapped
desperation haunts its way
into your dreams.
Funny, on how a bad
night, your bed sheets become a blade.
Your sweat becomes the guillotine. And
your dreams become an awakening
into the afterlife.
You watch the way
Like an exoskeleton picking
out and rearranging each rib
bone with every rise of the chest.
In your sleep – you speak to me
in riddles. Like you can’t afford
tongues. Like the devil
has been cleansed from inside
you. Like you gave up
poison years ago.
Yet here we lie.
Dirtying things that do not deserve
stains. Carving our names
into the trunks of trees just to prove
physicality. Knocking over grave
markers in the cemetery like the
answer to every secret
is in the haunting,
not in the ghost.