Nikkita: Last Of The Thousand Novembers Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

I mosey
Around the livid halls
Of a thousand Novembers.
But Nikkita,
Let me tell you something.

This is the last of it.
I am bereft of life,
But in this
Plush death,
I have never been so alive
In the burning
Hours
Of a thousand Novembers.

A thousand Novembers
That gave a thousand more
Deaths.
The wind rushes
In a dash of daggers
As you make love
To the rancid tigers.
This is what you are.
A farce.
A trickster in the form
Of a tulip with thorns.

A ballerina who dances
And tiptoes through fire.
You are the
Burning ember outside
The window that wails
With the night’s tail.

So here,
With all the love
I had
That was never enough,
With all the
Prattle that I have heard
Your whereabouts,
Your new liaisons,
I don’t care.
Let time tell you
Of your own travails.
Let the motions of the clocks
Grant you your
Drudgery.

You are betrothed to
The night’s cantankerous
Soiree of tigers.
You are the tiger’s muse.
But not so much
A tiger’s prowess.

And so to a thousand Novembers,
My death
Wants verve.

And so to the
Tiger who took you,
And you let him take you
To his lair
Of rancorous disdain,
Putrid affection,
Petrified howls,
And sullied fangs,
Slowly puncture
Through her skin,
Mad tiger.
You are as mad
As her crazed tempest.

And to Nikkita,
You are the last
Of a thousand
Novembers,

And mine too,
In a thousand Novembers,
I am your last.
I am the last.