Too late, you have signed the deed,
when you hear a wailing in the cellar.
You find her blind and stubborn
as a root, naked, draped in old lace.
As you lift her through the trapdoor
the wind begins to pierce the eaves,
to fill the high and narrow rooms
with the reek of wood's damp rot.
She tells of the graves in the yard:
one cat, three dogs, a fetus.
She speaks of an empty carriage,
the rusty stain on the hall paper.
And while you are listening
you taste the dead hours and grasp
the worms' artless consummation:
you feel time between your fingers.
She is slipping back from you,
down to the dark lampshades,
the chest with the broken hasp,
to photographs of forgotten memory.
(First appeared in Night Cry)
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