clay

cowardice runs deep, like a rich vein of red
through the bottom of a Colorado river.

so I gathered that clay, scooped it up in my hands
and packed it, carefully, over my face
until it covered every inch; and my lidded eyes
were merely dents in the thick tan façade.

this was cleaner
than the traditional, Oedipal method
of blinding oneself.

alone, the clay
was not enough. I stayed inside
the house, too, under cover of a sturdy blue roof
that cordoned the horizon –
because out here there is too much sky
to hide from.

and I ignored the phantoms
still flitting in my ears,
because they spoke of the kind of roses
that wilt and melt in the rain, dropping their petals
to storms – and in truth I sometimes think
they look even more beautiful
that way, spreading and curling and darkening
into decadence, like glorious pink-frosted cake.

but I don’t want to be weak
like that.

sometimes, when we watched movies, I’d scratch
tiny eyeholes in the clay, so I could see
just a little; but I’d still pretend I
didn’t want the world to explode in
light and life and love
like it did on the screen.

and even when I rolled my twenty-sided dice
in those cloistered rooms, I kept my mask on
and my eyes shut
just in case I rolled a twenty,
so I wouldn’t have to believe
there was such a thing
as good luck.