I’m frightened in the nighttime, though I’m not the only one.
The air shrieks with the sound of dogs, the ugly growl of wind
but happiness, they say, is a warm and smoking gun.
Sleep, just like a lover’s mouth, the oily of its tongue
evades me like redemption from my every mortal sin.
I’m frightened in the nighttime, though I’m not the only one.
The analgesic clutch of the longed for midnight sun
despoiled by every memory, an intruder breaking in,
but happiness, they say, is a warm and smoking gun.
Pity thin skinned animals, only fit for drums
like me – I beat my chest until my ribcage cracks and sings
I’m frightened in the nighttime, though I’m not the only one
who is swigging at some bottle while counting up the sum
of bitter pills pushed down until your mouth is lined with tin
but happiness, they say, is a warm and smoking gun.
Unconscious in the dawn, my body finally numb,
sleeping just as calmly as an insect on a pin,
I’m frightened in the nighttime, though I’m not the only one
but happiness, they say, is a warm and smoking gun.
eleanor j jackson 