Two phantoms came to me one night,
the first a student of opera
and hard knocks; approaching
in a gown spattered by bloodstains,
she bore on a scarlet tray
a gleaming golden pencil, said “Complain.”
The second, more flower girl
than demented bride, strewed petals
from bottomless pockets with one hand,
held in the other a purple pillow
with a silver pen upon it, whispered “Praise.”
Half-awake in the predawn
I tossed and turned,
raged and burned,
blearily staggered from bed to window
and wondered which fled ghost
would sign her name to the phrases I was forming.
from Silver RosesFind it in the library
Copyright © Persea Books 2010
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Persea Books.