The hiss of winter. The sleepless veins.
The hands devising sin. Bruises must be
the cure for something in the starless dark.
Rain arrives as the voice of swollen lips.
No one peels away pain from the mango
imported from Nicaragua where girls
ride the rails to northern freedom.
The hiss and haunt of winter has no days. Only nights
Only gaps in the eaves. Only songs that weave
together worry and wingspans to the next world.
And the pantomimes of moths. And the mercurial
silence that winces before a flame.
Blood has its home in skin. Rage begins
to rage. It fires-up like an owl, talons out,
slices the bald head that begins to bleed.
John Davis is the author of Gigs and The Reservist. His work has appeared recently in DMQ Review, Iron Horse Literary Review, One and Rio Grande Review.