A HAUNTING

In my sleep the omen is a blessing,
something small & insignificant, a kiss 
or a mouth full of loose teeth. Waking 
to find I drank the water in the night
but my lips are still chapped, isn’t it 
always the way. Out  

in the kitchen eggs are breaking themselves 
over a sink, yolks like yellow eyes 
slipping sightless down the drain. I don’t 
catch myself in the mirror 
& that, too, is a blessing. To be seen 
& to be eaten are the same. 

Morning is a state of mind, I say
to no one, to the dream stain clinging 
to my sheet-creased cheeks. So many shells 
to clean & pound to dust, so many symbols 
that might save us. The tatters of the omen 
tickle my throat & I feel 
perforated, sucked from my own core, watching 
a membrane swirl downward. 

What do they feel, those aborted suns 
navigating a stream of waste until they make it
to some distant shore? I spend so long
listening to holes that I forget. Sewer 
scent & refuse huddling between my teeth
like frightened strays. Everywhere the image 
of decay but no way to touch it.