She, seated on the bed

might it have been half-past five? she said

separated from what was to be

arteries, body ticking like a watch’s plea.

 

A double march going

crime on one side, justice knowing

tho’ not afraid, shuddered she

of what was surely soon to be.

 

Assailed by adventure unforeseen

the day produced a hazy dream,

to persuade it was a nightmare, so

moon disengaged from foggy bow

and light, mingled with fallen snow

 

Now twas light thru chamber hinge

a hole shining with reddish tinge

bloody, but not by a candle

not a sound, not a soul was moving, able.

 

No speaking, not a single breath

silence glacial, profound, and death

were it not for light in there

now next to a sepulchre, where

she seemed to say a little prayer.

 

A lower door on hinges turned

a heavy step on staircase, hastened

the hovel’s eerie latch had lifted

something on the table shifted

and at once the horrid dream,

like flour sifted.

 

-Sandra Johnson, 6/22/19