WHITE NOISE AT MIDNIGHT

They all want me to stop talking to you.
My mother with the face of a television
Blaring answers to the game no one ever guesses --
Bill Holden and Deborah Kerr in Bombay making nookie
on the graves. The wind cawing senseless to the Blue Moon.

Even you are tired of my chatter -- Smart girl
Your ears stuffed with happiness,
Lying with your incest victim a year now
You haven't sent me word as you promised, my darling
Of second chances.

In the light graves the sheets are so clean.
I gather them up and sheath their silk
For bandages. When the armies arrive, Deborah
And Bill and I all lie and spread
For them. The way you liked me, stupid and silent.

We want to please them. We want every
thing absorbed -- The liquids taken in like a sponge.
No messes. No white horses running wild at midnight.
Nothing fecund left to the brown fields. The Blue

Herons lift -- Their wings wild with applause. The Moon turns
Creamy. Everyone gets excited. There is nothing to do.
I cannot stop talking to you.