Like Heathcliff on the Moor

He comes in the worst part of the night.

The moon has either set

or never risen.

There are no intelligent constellations

anywhere.

His Mother rips off her dress as

he slides fishlike from her V.

His Amniotic Sack.

The Caul of Good Fortune.

His eyes.

Dark and bright.

She names him Judas

because she likes the name.

When he is twenty-two he will

Win the War.

Across the hall someone else is born and

lives three minutes.

The air.

Filled with a high pitched keening.

Like Heathcliff on the moor.

First Published by Sacred Chickens