Drapes

--by Naomi Sabzjadid

Mother of God, and wrenching inked palaces seven hundred paces into the forest. 

Holy nearing the bridges and creaking bricks to nearing their final edge. 

Torment the place with everything the night can possibly possess 

Hunting and waiting 

Hollow and etched, gasping bare windows 

Cold metal stirring with the deserted air;

Armor banded to old walls.

Carry out and deplore yourselves, for the clock will definitely soon strike twelve. 

I told you now,

and I have told you then, 

and you will be told 

that there is nothing to be done. 

Now the place dips and shivers 

Like a bad feeling,

As one’s heart drops. 

The whole palace whines through wind bitten windows, 

And the drapes whip and thrash and flail and cling for dear life. 

Silver satin held by deep-browned brass. 

You can never pale its song, 

Slamming the walls and tattering the ceiling with its gigantic wings 

Its silky sheen glares;

It’s angry 

It’s hurt 

It’s confused 

It’s helpless 

It’s trying 

It’s pleading 

It’s holding 

And gripping. 

And no one knows where the wind blows from—Outside or in? 

Hungry for the view it gives, and forever tied up to cover it.