Each night you dream a woman: Hilda,
round breasted, bottle hollow,
who comes to collect all the self betrayals
that fill your days, coins you put through
the slot in Hilda's high knot of hair,
the thirty pieces of silver you owe
to the Judas living inside you.
Each night she hovers above
the bed on hummingbird wings coaxing
and bleating her promises: to do
your dirty laundry, ja, and scrub
away the darkness, if only you'll
give her something.
Hilda will fix, don't worry.
Just look at how strong her arms are.
Each night she flexes and bows
and you hate yourself for having
so much to feed her: so many lies,
so many timid silences.
You make your deposit
and soon you've stopped
tossing and twisting the sheets.
Ja, Hilda fixes everything --
just close your eyes.
See? She gives you
blindness, she gives you
the sleep of mountains.