Janet Bernichon poetry

[dustinashe]

Necromancer

You were the little girl
looking out the closed window,
who dreamed of flying in the night wind.
And with the wave of your hypodermic magic wand,
you rode the white powder comet's tail.
You were a falling star.

Little girl I wanted to shake you sensible,
shake you harder than the way you died,
a pale pool of water
convulsing on the bathroom floor.
Spike still in your arm
when we found you, a stick of ice,
your scream for more had silenced.

Let me seal the holes in your thin skin.
Let me pull you from the gilded coffin
you lie in, so pristeen in peach chiffon,
dark eyes closed and glued shut,
and stop them from saying "what a waste."
Let me wake you from your snow white sleep.

I am the necromancer
that has seen you die a hundred times.
I can lift you from the ground
and fill your grave with the hands
of those who took you to a higher sorrow,
smash them to dust with your granite tombstone.
I can shape the dirt into your form
and raise you from the dead
but I can't lock the gates to junkie heaven.

© Janet Bernichon