The tomb is full of crows and ghosts
and Juliet the first lies dead in the hothouse fumes of fundamentalism
while Juliet the second saunters through the garden of Eden
and sucks her thumb and rhymes (chime w/ thyme)
and the theme of his hairline is a hand pulling it away from his face,
or his eyes, a kind of orbital lineate, a phantom falsetto,
an illegitimate grandmother play-acting, and Juliet the first awakes,
shakes the sleep from her eyes, falls upon the sword
while Juliet the second surrenders to the undercurrent
with pomegranate juice dripping from her lips, she is listing,
considers herself fortunate to have escaped his grasp,
though the weight of his bony curvature still hangs on her like a cloak,
shrill and ugly like a nightmare awaking in the dim living room
at the most ungodlike hour of the Roman clock.
The tomb is full of the same dust she walks through so much later,
the same dust she wipes from her bedside table
where the thought of him still curls to nape during the night.
He is a light never to be snuffed out.
A desperate joke in the telling, a spine twisted on the bed
from the same betrayal of your voice in my head,
and the dead delay the retelling – the ghost stands in the gloom of the bedroom,
points, whispers, waits.