Ode to pilgrim

The floor is crawling with my demons
And the shadows are like chalk-print
On the doors

I know my feet make no sound
Yet I gasp and stumble
At the threshold of fear

There ought to be lamps, lit
And quivering,
With their shaky promise of deliverance

I sleep with a dream-catcher
Over my head, Maman
But it is not you


The air is aching with tenderness, soured
It seems such a waste
To grieve

But who are we then?
Who shrink from ghosts
And people, alike

We do not know the beginning
Of our own names
And it is not fair

To place the burden of blame
On the quiet one who hates
To cry in the dark