[Jehanne Dubrow]

Lament
Timor Mortis Conturbat Me


When twilight tires of its terrors,
When the errant anguish of the night thrush erupts
Like a fat, black moon upon an ashfield of urns,
When God, in his bitter infinity prepares a worm to seize me,
When the invincible enemy sees me,
When I burn the notice that confirmed our break-up.
When you notice that I crack-up, but how it’s never from laughter,
When sun-up is the zero hour, and I do not merit an ounce of sleep—
The fear of death confounds me.

When I carve, from the bones in my wrist, a flute.
When I prove it to you, when I throb and when I clench.
When you trawl my water with fisherman’s fingers.
When I sit quite still and clip your clothes into pieces,
Even as my shattered tearwells swell with stars.
When the door is open but the curtains are drawn,
And the curtains are gauze, and the walls have eyes.
And when the screaming light of Christ casts doubt on me—
The fear of death confounds me.

When I’m pissed on want for lack of wine,
When you coax down my panties with a vulpine tongue,
When perishing atop you, I do not rise up,
When the deed is done and the evidence is hidden.
And when I fall ill with a semblance of sepsis,
And you fill in our ellipses with question marks,
While your damn, demented heart scars me speechless.
When your arctic stare ice-bounds me—
The fear of death confounds me.

When the end is near and I draw close to Jehovah.
When it is over, when we were lovers,
When Marian apparitions devour the clouds.
Jesus you are handsome.
So I let you put your hand in. And then you demand it.
And it hurts, hurts, hurts because it has to, it has to.
When you, my disaster, have driven me to drink,
When empties and bottleshards fill the sink,
When a blood stain slurs through my nightgown’s seam—
The fear of death yet confounds me.

But you go on without me.

-first appeared in No Tell Motel


4:13 a.m.


The shift of sleepwalks and suicides.
The occasion of owls and a demi-lune fog.
Even God has nodded off

And won’t be taking prayers til ten.
Ad interim, you put them on.
As if your wants could keep you warm.

As if. You say your shibboleths.
You thumb your beads. You scry the glass.
Night creeps to its precipice

And the broken rim of reason breaks
Again. An obsidian sky betrays you.
Every serrate shadow flays you.

Soon enough, the crow will caw.
The cock will crow. The door will close.
(He isn’t coming back, you know.)

And so wee, wet hours of grief relent.
In thirty years you’ll sure forget
Precisely how tonight’s pain felt.

And in whose black house you dwelt.

-first appeared in Poetry


Eulogy


She was slattern and ash.
Hoarfrost on thorn.
Vinegar and hyssop.
A hiccough. A fuck-up.
No matter. No factly .
She was a casual exactly,
Habitually plastered.
And every havoc that had her
Disastered her.

She was a cat on a trash
Heap. A baby and a trembler.
In transit or in trouble,
Ever one or the other.
She was the warning
Your mother tried to woman you
About. The dementia
You presented with.
The misfortune you’ve resented,

Since. She was ankle iron,
Ironing board. Bored and forlorn,
She was horny, sore, and cheap.
She dreamed of doors and ceilings.
A creamy, skin-deep bything.
She was a mouthful of dirty
Words, pretty as pain.
was the staple
On a centerfolded page.

She was a swiftlet nesting
In a stew. What she did to you,
You let her do. Like the variegated
Musk of ambergris, she lingered.
Her particular taste
On your tongue and your finger.
She was linen white. And
Rubbish red. And maidenhead.
And fantastic in bed.

But now she’s dead.

-first appeared in No Tell Motel