Keeping Sentry

All this time I’ve been staring beyond the window,
at this wraith that won’t show its face.
For years it had floated, for hours I had watched
until it flicked its tongue like a flame
that raises its eyebrows at you
and licks you to ash. I felt it upon me,
lashing and tickling me like a razor.
Then my eyes came alive and I recognised
you, like a mother does a child she has lost
long ago. So long
she believes it was a dream – all the pain
and sleepless nights and laughter in the streets
and singing under raining lampposts.

You, so thin and pale I saw the trees
clawing the sky through your body –
a body that did not stand or lie
but hung on the air, as on a hatstand.
You put chills down my back,
dizziness in my head, though I had not touched
the vodka since the night you left.
(Just the beer and the whiskey).

What first sewed itself into my mouth
was a curse, so deep and mad
I wanted to bellow it like a caveman,
slam it through the closed window
and into your ear like a bullet.
Then a tear extinguished it, and the steam
tapped the glass politely, whispering,
“Do not escape from me again.” And,
“Please.”