Waiting for the Obituary

—for Cuong

Eve Strillacci    

I have this wild dream where snakes & hounds
savage the neighborhood
while we are sleeping.
I wake to toothmarks
on the pillowcases,
slobber on the stairs, 
& you, gone, like a black dog
into shadow, reabsorbed
into the night. Snakeskin drapes
the headboard 
—skin dropped to reveal
a dark tongue of muscle, 
a body of speech. 
On the streets, death breaks
the jaws of houses, 
quaint Tudors trembling,
back porches dangled
over puddles of soot.
What are the words
to disgorge sorrow?  Why does death
cleave the dumb lanes
like a beast? You were twenty-two,
& I was just sleeping.
Scales everywhere, saucers 
of moonlight cupped
in charred sand.