By Bob Zordani

I am afraid of the night,
afraid of the sadness

breaking from my skull in convulsions,
afraid of the terrible light

dawn has thrown upon me.
This morning, blind, unable

to speak, I hear your hands
stir the dead air

that is this morning,
feel your breath pull

stiff pins from my back,
taste blood in my mouth

Even though I jerk and lunge
and ride these spasms darkly,

even though I am
plane without pilot,

drooler, dancer, freak,
even if I am a freak,

I speak these plain truths:
you are the woman who soothes

this beaten back, ices down
this bloody tongue, fat lip, nose.

Who lets me sleep it off.
Preens me when I wake.

©2004,Water Press & Media,Inc.