When I crept out of
bed for work
you were so
still
I thought you had actually died.
As a garbage
truck roared by,
I wished
I could
wrap you in
my saffron
bathrobe
and carry you
every morning.
Or that I could transform
you into a cricket
to hear you
chat freely with
the dusk.
You said
you thought
you
wanted to live forever
with me,
so that we
could climb into
a spaceship and watch
society
fall apart.
But,
now
it seems
in your paling
mind I’m daily
dulled with the ghost
light of the moon.
I don’t want to be
immortal,
all I want to be
is your last rosy-fingered dawn.
by Mx. Glass
Mx. Glass recently graduated from the Creative Writing BA program at San Francisco State University. Her current project is to look at different modes of haunting in our society, such as myth, cultural norms, memory and language.
