ELLE DINA

Lonely ghost of a girl, hiding

under beds when the lights are out

and the occupants asleep.

listening to those dreams, those

ether-dust-dark whisperings

escaped from sleep slacked lips,

sounding like: rose bushes, porch light, home.

How many beds has it been?

how many empty wooden floorsdust bunnies curled in blankets overone prone form, whispering forever.

 

And look how we blame the hungry.

You feared the darkwhen you believed its tiding

brought forth dreams more than nightmare,

terrors in the night and frozen bodies on the bed.

You blamed her, poor sad girl,

sitting on your chest, eating her fill.

But I could count her ribs. And you.

Face yourself; thy name is hypocrite.

Taste that mirror hunger in your breast,

winding down, empty.

And what do you think

of the night now?

 

I, too, have migrated.

Crawl space to empty floor,

under the mattress, slipping past spaces

of the ribs. Tell me again why you cannot sleep.

I will sing you a song and you will know it, dear one,

a song of the night, the empty human heart.

It has been long since I have eaten. I can wait.

 

And this is what we learn from bedtime-stories:

​

(love is a ghost under the bed

holding tight to your ankle, saying

I will never leave you, goodnight,

not even if you scream)

 

under the bed it is infinite;

billions upon billions of beasts,

and stars.