Katabasis

is a matter of dissent. Having
tired of plastic wreaths and bauble-
dusted water, I swallowed the shout echoing
in the stairwell of my throat. I walked
into the shades, the long crowds of them.
They were my cloak, or I theirs.

I passed coins to ghosts in the
scratched halls where prophets lick
tiles. Underworld geography rose with pitched
breath. Vaulted chambers of fluorescent flash
shook memory loose, knocked my mind’s
eye ajar. I touched a shelf of carmine rabbits
for the holidays. The labyrinth revealed itself
to be all sound and light.     Outside, then.

Smoke drifted off me like long curls
of lost hair, brushed away with the
fine points of falling snow. In the dark that
washed my cheeks, tangerine globes,
moth-[   ]ing, stood like sentinels.