Bats

unveil themselves in dark.
They hang, each a jagged,

silken sleeve, from moonlit rafters bright
as polished knives. They swim

the muddied air and keen
like supersonic babies, the sound

we imagine empty wombs might make
in women who can't fill them up.

A clasp, a scratch, a sigh.
They drink fruit dry.

And wheel, against feverish light flung hard
upon their faces,

in circles that nauseate.
Imagine one at breast or neck,

patterning a name in driblets of iodine
that spatter your skin in stars.

They flutter, shake like mystics.
They materialize. Revelatory

as a stranger's underthings found tossed
upon the marital bed, you tremble

even at the thought. Asleep,
you tear your fingers

through your damp neck hair
and search the sheets all night.

Copyright © 2007 Paisley Rekdal All rights reserved
from The Invention of the Kaleidoscope
University of Pittsburgh Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission