Sonnet 35,234

Tuesday, October 16, 2018

Sometimes it begins this way:
Me, sitting in my old leather chair.
You, lying on the floor nearby,
banked in a shaft of pale sunlight,
appearing as a sleeping angel —
yet dead. Napping, rather.
Napping and you are not human,
love, but alien: green-skinned
with elongated head and shimmering,
towering, jet black eyes. When
you speak it sounds like a hundred
women whispering “Bimi, dimi,
bimi, dimi, wimi! Squimi bimi!”
I don’t know what you’re saying,
but I love it and love you though
right now I guess you might be dead.

• • •
 

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