What Turns Up in the Dark

Krista Price 

I do not admire you asif you were wine, or rose,
or the shell of apples the mother carves off.
I accept you as certain dark hearts are,

to be needed in secret,between the blood and the bed.

I covet you as the bird that never sings
but possesses in itself the flame of hidden candles;
the light suggests to your mask a certain solid wall,
pulled from the grave, and reflects darkly in my soul.

You trap me without wondering how, or when, or from where.
I want you terrifyingly, without reason or cure,
so I follow you because I found no other way

than this: where I do not live, nor you,
so close that your fingernails on my hips is my birthmark,
so close that your hands reach as I go down asleep