Shane Signorino

Before this dybbuk ascends,
before my soul-house is vacant
will my friends please hold a Gala
late into the hours of insomnia.

No parade display for me,
eyes manacled by a wicked seamstress,
skin devoid of hue
and colder than February white-leaves.
Show not the lips too lifeless and caked
with powder to touch.

Close my wooden jewelry box,
burn to the ground still remains,
sprinkle the ash in tobacco-glass,
soak aged paper in honey,
and roll an impetus cigarette.

Spike the wine with my venom,
raise your glasses high and smile
as I pass through your teeth
and drip from your tongues.