When rain hurls itself against the diamond glass
with the suicidal passion of a gothic hero, transforming
my window into the white, glycerin eye
of a dark castle, gnarled and hiding among thick trees

When scabby, trickster imps lurk behind my bed posts
and shadows are like water over jutting stones,
smoothing over jagged teeth and gleaming eyes
When in my room, I tilt my head ever so slightly, so
my neck, creamy as any lady’s, catches
the lamplight; showcasing, unaware, the kind of beauty
that drives men off teetering cliffs

When my eyes escape the page and elope
into the distance
My supporting hand slackens and my book,
forgotten, starts to tip, my fingers bowing down
like acquiescent willows in the wind

In the space between seconds I’m lost
atop the highest parapet, armoured only in fresh skin;
at least, until the book smacks the floor
and slaps me awake.
Then my cringing eyes hunt for anyone
who could having been spying on me.
I’m as embarrassed as if I’d been caught
Trying on push-up bras
Cars honk through the rain. My bedspread is blue gingham
from when I was twelve; my skin is patchy and brown.
Nobody cares about my neck.