I am Half Sick of Shadows

Her whispers like a wave
in my night, like a corner
whore, a siren luring
me to the gate.

I ignore you like I ignore
morality, like I ignore
chemical love.

I do not whisper back
to the Lady of Shalott
like a dream in my subtle
sleep. My nude body,
empty of soul, turns
like a barbeque pit.

I face you, irrelevant noise.
I do not answer.

Were you my mother finally
clawing free from the grave
like a cataleptic Madeline?

Were you answering my
telepathic writings?

Were you the voice of my
humanitarian sins pulling
me toward God?

Were you the voice of God?

God is a woman, I say,
a street corner whore with
a voice of rasp, she works it.