☾
…
A shake in the bush, soft, quiet,
Dared only crickets
and night winds to make noise.
A mouse in a trap, shaken, shook.
Soft, soft… loud… Pounding the ground,
leaf, branch, berry, fallen twig.
What might it be, this cause, this
ever growing, violent howl,
that beats like a drum…
The crescendo under
a crescent moon,
The creature stirred, unrest,
Rattling away–
Turn away.
Rattle.
Walk away.
Turn your back, turn away.
As far as you know, it is merely the wind causing the rattle.
Walk past the bush without
a second glance… You’re clearly
hearing things in the night, Imaginative, chimerical.
Loud… mezzo…
Trickle down, soft, gone.
…Gone. That’s it, the rattle is gone.
So, was it ever even there?
…
…
“You should not be wandering outside so late.”
…Your mother scolds you
the next morning,
the smell of berry pancakes
wafting you Awake.
You wander into the kitchen,
stomach grumbling, the soft
whir of a hand mixer droning behind.
Onto your chair, you
sit, sat, the pastry on the plate springing
a smile to your cracked lips.
…
It’s easier to pretend than acknowledge.
It’s easier to not see, to not hear,
it’s much easier to say you were paranoid,
seeing, hearing in the night, all that was not there…
So, when night again falls,
your mother asleep, the window left open
and you hear
a shrieking scratch at the front door
Turn away, run away,
quiet, down, down,
gone.
