This Is What It Is Like To Have Loved Her

Think of some dilapitated house

of ancient construction---every small town

around DownHome has one;

out on some rural road that runs through

windswept, arid, barbwired wastes

where queerboys can be taken for a beating.

Think of that pile of stone, mortar, wood.

and the fading chips of whitewash

from the time when Hilter was slapping paint.
The whole edifice is a parody of design---

like something a precociius prechooler

might scriblle after a night of very bad dreams.

This kind of place you do not want to stare at directly;

peripheral vision is enough when you happen to pass by---

although, for reasons you do not speak of by day,

you feel an urge to look, just one look.

And if you are both brave enough,

and foolhardy enough, to hitch yourself up,

and stop your rusybucket car, and step out,

and help yourself to a lingering stare . . .


you might notice one of the shutters hanging open,

at the same angles as the broken limbs of a dying tree

that, leafeless, still casts an odd shadow, even on

an overcast day of the dimmest light.

No one, alive, is in there, you tell yourself,

conscious of the odd way of stating that just now;

and what may dwell in there may not be dead---

not as human beings define death;

nor silent (travelers by night have heard howls and screams)

in the way that even outer space might provide silence.

And as you realize that you cannot turn away,

while a shudder slams through your body,

and the bile of this morning's hamburger comes up in your throat,

an arm that may have been a person's one

(an arm flexed strangely, with a hand of arachnid fingers;

the flesh the color and constituency of putrefaction)

slams the shutter closed, but not before

you look into those searing eyes---

all that you can perceive of the visage of

this thing your curious moment has disturbed) . . .


and then more crows than you have ever seen

take flight from roosts you had not noticed;

and the wind is like a murdere victim's final scream;


and then it all stops, like a bad loop, and you

climb back into the car, and drive away---

instinct and habit compelling you,

as you feel the supports, on which your mind has relied,

diminish and collapse like toothpicks.


You cannot explain it to yourself.


You dare not try to describe it to others.


But you know your dreams have been embraced by it----

raped, ravaged, and ruined to a rapport with it . . . 


and you fear that first yawn, that first blink, that first urge,

in the coming night,

to sleep.





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Morningglory's picture


Wonderfully creepy 

Copyright © morningglory

Starward's picture

Thank you very much!

Thank you very much!


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