Night: A Visceral Poem on Grief, Haunting Memories, and Loss

Et le ver rongera ta peau comme un remords.
— Charles Baudelaire, “Remords posthume,” Les Fleurs du mal.

And the worm will gnaw your skin like remorse.

Night

How does the night approximate
the distant croaking of frogs
drowning in your skeleton
before I found you
leaning against a wall
behind abandoned storefronts—

and the barking
of crazed motherfucking dogs
in the rushing moonlight

 melding with the treacherous fragrance
of the flowers
I went to lay
on your tombstone,

with tears
in my eyelidless eyes,
without intoning any prayers,

right after
you went to hell?

You tell me,
before it starts to rain…