Young Writers Society

I like this poem too much. Do your worst, if so inclined.

our familiar lady.

Death walks New York suave oil in her hair
stalks Madrid a new fast-talking noir dame
new to the chemical sun over the city, carribeña
soaking up warmth while she hunts.
Death reads Sandman on fire escapes about to collapse,
feels as though someone (she knows no Morpheus)
has been watching.

Her wings have long been in storage - they grew
as fingernails, and off-guard would get caught in doorways
sometimes the overpass. And it hurts to trim and trim
something more deluxe than Fifth avenue
and a Hindu temple, stronger than flight itself.
Maybe they still are. But who ever trusted
black plastic bags? Not Death in tight ankled pants
and a waitress' smile. Bags and people burst open
with entrails soon enough, and always.

And in hotel rooms she fills the missing parts of holy books
with a red pen - waits for god when
the northern lights and killing cold breathe over the fjords.
She was there waiting
when he danced in the morning and the world was begun.
She will be there waiting; part of her
is always expectant, cross and bare legged in the snow.

But here, on the pavement, she puts on a dark hood
and follows the call of heat rising
as stormclouds, glances often at the sky
for her crows. There is work to be done.