November curled itself around my
spine like cigarette smoke,
seeping into me.
December froze in her grey web.
I want to wake from the dark,
sleep naked in moon-cooled dirt,
deep in the night where graves
spread like black pollen.
I am where the wind
snuffs out candles,
can touch a curtain like a ghost,
like a bell.
Like the dead I escort,
sap to want.
This was originally published in Fall 2017 edition of The Helix.
