Where Ravens Circle the Sleeper

May her sleep be still tonight, though the sea is rising just beyond the wall,

though the glass pane is softly dripping with salt she did not taste,

though the bird outside has flung its black shadow

like a warning across her dreams—too late, always too late.

There is something wrong with the air in this room,

these wanton airs that move without wind, that brush the length of tress

coiled on her shoulder as if they have known her longer than I,

as if they whisper to her secrets that I have buried too deep to hear.

She breathes as though nothing waits, but I see it,

I see the place from which no soul returns,

whose portals gape like wounds in the belly of night,

and I ask, though I know she cannot answer,

Hast thou no fear?

For the world is not kind to the still and trusting,

and I have known the dead who groaned even after the blade,

even after their names were forgotten,

even after the tide took them

upon the wave that swore to cleanse

but did nothing but carry.

And yet she sleeps, one more holy

than I will ever be,

so fearfully,

so unaware.