©Sunday's Murder of Crows
Mimi Wolske - Mona Arizona™
All Rights Reserved
Sometimes, more often and not,
I wake wondering Am I a vampire?
Metallic taste--more than one spot--
covers my teeth; they require
a sweeping tongue, long on spittle,
short on the blood it can taste.
Teeth clenched, they're almost brittle.
It's what I do at night, lay in waste
and nightmares of you alone,
in Mexico without me,
A murder of crows after your bone
and you cry for me as them you flee.