Heathcliff and Me

Give me the sweet golden light that lately
flooded this room. Light invisible but palpable,
light I felt with all my senses. Give me the heavenly
hand whose touch was seen, tasted and heard
washing over me. Has any Heathcliff, longing
for his Cathy, imploring her ghost to haunt him,
seen her one last time? Tell me he has seen her,
for a black chasm yawns before me, seperating
her world from mine, where no phone line
reaches, where no letter will be replied.

The silence of that chasm answers me,
filling my brain, rounding upon itself in wave
after wave, until the fury explodes in a scream,
in fingers gripping the bed frame, in fists
that pound and pound in vain. O Death,
where is thy sting? O psalmist, speak not
to me, for the sting is deep in every part of me
and every second spawns a hundred new
hellish cells to form my fiery bones.