‘Round MidnightJohn Murillo
Some nights I watch you sleep, the eyelids’ jig and beg, the blue rise of memory and moon. When you sleep, I fetch a machete from behind a bedpost, stalk the night, plot the rise of infidels. Before dawn, maybe you whisper the six histories of river and rain, rise like steam from an open wound, wrap yourself in ash, blood and honey. Maybe you navigate stained glass streets, havoc the avenues, ransack basilica in search of me. Maybe you burn candles, moan canticles, conjure lightning and thunderclap. Sweet river woman, waist beaded and bangled, sing moon and I will follow you. Rise blue and I will find you.
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