Night of 1/16

From under the heavy cover I awake. Poison is whispering into my damp ear.

The night air is chill but the blankies make me bake.

The gentian mouth is drawing near, coyly whispering, words like candy on purple lips.

The cyanotic mouth is blue inside and smells like cake, it's not the candy of Gretel's witch I fear.

Laying awake in the dark will poison leave me here? The green face moves closer – I think of absinthe.

And poison's gloom grows in my womb and I start to fear, the darkest thoughts are often held most dear.

But the duvets too heavy and the room too cold.

And my green friend knows a cure for dank musings and a cure for growing old.

I look for the eyes in the emerald face and the gentian throat is gone, no more sweet morbid words, no more indigo leer.

I know I need an antidote, lest poison make me cold. And I summon my protector,

Carried by the tragic south wind, swathed in pink, buzzing softly, radiating goodness, warmed by strong drink,

She is my very own fairy godmother and I belong to her.

And she cleans away tumbling dusts of strychnine with a good stout broom and as I close my eyes, she guards me in my room.

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