Footnote, Part IV

IV

I will not tell them
Though they clamor to hear with their silences and stares
The pointed shoulders and marionette grins that saw and chafe
A whore will not betray her master
As long as he draws breath

And there’s the rub, love
For through these three thirsty days
I’ve whispered the same promise
Into the hardwood post that stood between sleep and me
Like Scylla to your Charybdis.

That one day I will see you
Raising an arm to fend off the stars
That fall, knell-like, over the chatter of your heart
And lay silence smooth over your fading frame.

There will be time then, when the ticking stops
To gather my skirts and begin.