by Margaret Stavely
I think, as I sit here and write,
That something has sneaked behind my back
To read my words, something black,
Evil, and a part of the night.
I will not turn, for I might see
His face, and knowing what he is
At last trade part of me for what is his.
Perhaps it is my destiny
To loose my grip on words and things,
And travel down an easy stair,
And step on carcasses thrown there
That once walked by as kings
Or clerygman or peers or saints,
Who looked behind and caught the gleam
Beneath his lids, and joined the team
Of Goodness that he kisses, taints,
Divests each one, and lets each shell
Tremble, giggle, and suddenly fall,
When there is nothing there at all
Of Heaven, an everything of hell.
I have not turned, although his tongue
Now seeks my neck. His breath is warm,
Suggestive of internal storm
Without the strenght of thunder hung
On every cloud to rumble: “Get
Inside a house, under a strong roof!”
I have not turned. I am aloof.
I have not turned… as yet.