Why does this have to come today, as if to mock me? My favorite poet, the power of his love poems, enter my home in the night, electronic reminders that passion and desire are no longer my provenance, long since decayed in a cemetery's dry earth, with no grass or trees, here where the sun brings death, not breath.
The mail, Neruda, the world sing in unison, You are alive in a world that does not love you, does not know how or why you should be loved. My escape route littered by empty pill bottles, stumbling, I follow footprints of callous children and disloyal dogs into limbo. The devil has taken residence in the body of a Welsh witch who finds no satisfaction. Chamisa in flames grows the desert. Dust and ashes fill my mouth.
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