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His words beat on her face
in his poised for a slow boil aching manner,
carried on chrysanthemum breath of green chenille
and winter, where animals hole up in caves
to sleep away the danger, and she’s screwed
her eyes shut to keep him from getting in

and making a mantra out of
“he’ll go away if i ignore him,”
but if she can’t say what she knows is there
then he’s already inside,
iridescently victorious with beetle-black eyes,

because if you keep chanting
there are no monsters under the bed,
in the closet in strangers
in friends in myself,

they won’t have to leave because
you’ve given them the best defense,
and they’ll wait for you
to shrink yourself a doe heart,
beating madly right before you sleep
and all the words you say for composure
don’t match your thoughts or the truth.

Then they’ll come with flowers.