'At midnight the veil is the thinnest,'
you turned to me
in Halloween's torrential rain.
Us, feral creatures,
scuttled around the water tower
at the end of your street
friends for half our lives, sisters
caked in face paint
your mouth stitched shut with eye liner
black silks and nylon wigs
summoning Goddesses through your drunk fog
to put our lives straight
the way they were intended
where our men are new and committed
as the Bodhisattva.
The night we smoked opium in Denton
and dragged the dozy dealer to the porch
we fell asleep to your new folk boyfriend.
With the cassette well run
I heard his voice
murmuring hub and bub
from the coffee nook
in sync with your morning coos
like small laughter
not the smacking spittle
of a dawning tongue.
Each morning the sun shot down
armfuls of its stuff
and each night we played that game
with our superpowers
which we tested in your car
in your parents' garage
when your roommate wasn't home
radiating the strata —
our favorites: cyan, chartreuse, malachite,
We were famous,
we were the Dead Kids.
Hecate, Sedna, Cerridwen and Persephone —
they've nursed us through the Madian phase
and they'll be there
when we're croning.
I felt them the night you were married
all of us reunited in your stepfather's limousine.
The rainbow lights
through the dark windshield.
The driver knew the way. I did not.
In the fuselage of booze sweat and gowns,
I asked, 'Is this the afterlife?'
'Yes,' you turned to me,
your grinning mouth
stitched shut with eye liner.