1.

'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.


2.

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,

           razzmatazz.



3.

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

super-powering

           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.