Michelle Cahill

What a cliché you are, with such
élan, strutting about at the bar.
Though imperfection is desirable.

Show me your wit, your weapons,
your leaden tip or golden arrow.
For I have never known such praise.

I write your name in my sleep,
I turn your hand, a fallen leaf.
Now, there is no fear of death,

I have broken my promise. Sirens,
burning oil spilled on your shirt,
lipstick smudged all the way down.

I am exiled, somewhere between
my old and my new skin, the hours
are liminal as if waking is a dream.