Making a Bed

Remember the mix tapes and the letters
down those deep cold hallways, education
glistening under our feet like stuck stones,
the bang of the lockers like stupid hearts,
the warmth of your leather seats after the bell.
Your parents were gone when we lay down
to see what it was like to make a bed.

Coaxed

My night house isn't my day house.
Shadows corner me
in their darkened daze, charge me
like light never does.
My stairway, pit to doom
plants straining their crooked limbs
in embraces lined with thorns.
Carved names of those who used to
hover around here, sad as me, death
massaging their shoulders, weight
exercising its lofty smile.
Those names are in my heartstone.
What lingers must be coaxed
and bribed with sweet bread
and jugs of wine.