by Nancy Bennett
cut intersections in solar
darker than rain on a black slick road at night
darker than the deep woods down where
the razor winged owls whisper silent whooos
as downwards they descend.
Dark those nights, where I find myself
wanting the moon to flood the room
obliterating the ones who only come
with pale pure light, cold as an open crypt.
leeching through cracks in the glass
and the only shard of light that you see
is the glitter of the blades held tight
in their alabaster hands
in this room, this womb
where they have laid me down, only dreaming
where they have laid me, death seemed scheming
here where the darkest hours are brought close home
by shadow warriors.