I live with
holy sunshine—
but I wake to weep.
In the sun,
shadows stretch
long behind me,
where some things ought to
remain buried.
I did not go digging you up.
Bees do not normally
nest in skulls—
but I know
they hum in your head,
dripping honey of me.
Gentle wolf,
you came in the guise
of a friend.
They tell me that they would have
rescued me
as you made your advances—
except
they were never there,
in your lair.
And by that time
I had already
been eaten.
All that exists
between us now
is a history;
the guilt that still
weighs on you,
and poetry.
And if your guilt ever becomes
too much for you to bear,
and if you ever feel like
confessing,
my poems can be
your Hail Mary’s.
