The Love Song of Josef Fritzl

Lit by Love
the cellar doesn't seem so —
stark.
Bare bricks are quite romantic
— smoky eyes, a bottle of wine —
licked by the tip
of a candle's tongue;
and concrete and corroded steel
gain a certain brutal
charm, an industrial
je ne sais quoi,
like tankers when the sun goes down.

What's that glinting
in the rose-pink gloom
in the corner of the room?
Of course!
The surveillance camera
how could I forget?
Whirr, whizz, whizz, whirr
it looks so cute
as it tracks my goosesteps
back and forth
and back and forth —
cute as car faces
with radiator grins and
headlight eyes;
as window eyes crossed
with cartoon shock
above a red door that's
a mouth agape.

(It's been a while
since I went outside)

Jackboots cross the boards
upstairs. It's my time —
I don't need that over-
rated clock, the sun, to know:
I've got my glow.

Your steps (so ruthless!
so self-assured!)
descend the stairs.
My glow increases,
enfolds my mind
and everything's pretty
and everything's kind.
Everything. Even the pain
— clamps bite, steel intrudes —
becomes the sun
through scrunched-up lids
on a sunbathing face
that forgot to wear shades.

I swoon in a field
full of dandelion clocks
and late-summer haze.
I'll sleep forever in this
bleach-blonde daze,
as long as you love me
tell me you love me
don't let them find me
I need you to love me.