Anathema

I never recline in splendor,

I never take repose. The eyes

of an old woman are blue

and stick to me like insects to

a screen. She is not hating me,

though there are those who hate me,

so I never lie in repose for fear

that if I agree with the vulnerability

of sleep, I'll make my own murder.

I don't embrace the unconscious

or analyze my dreams. The eyes

of people who hate me might be

spiders crawling on my hands,

or snails that leave their shells,

but I will not allow their acidic

tongues to touch me. I believe

in ghosts only now that her blue

eyes stick to me like humidity.

I will not outgrow my spite,

though I read books that instruct

me to. No, I'll always lie with my

sleep beside me like a knife.

I forgot my spite, once, only

to wish I had not: He lay me

upon the bed, crossed my arms

across my chest, then fell to me,

pressing a book between us.

I never lie in repose. I am not

a portrait. But I think so still

my joints ache. One day, he

shall not be the same (as I have

never been the same), and we

shall read upon his stone a verse

attributed to my name. This

is my foresight and my fright,

blooming red in his eye's white.

Copyright Credit: Cate Marvin, "Anathema" from World’s Tallest Disaster. Copyright © 2001 by Cate Marvin. Reprinted by permission of Sarabande Books, Inc., www.sarabandebooks.org.

Source: World’s Tallest Disaster (Sarabande Books, 2001)