She watches the shadows fall away from the wall
Like ghostly finger puppets they scatter beneath an old squeaky mattress
She can hear two matron hands as they collapse the shutters from behind, slam goes the door.
The sound of her breath is like a dry matchstick as she listens to a ticking clock on an old burlap stump.
Everything falls down behind the walls. She has colonized every fear in the closet and gave each one a running brook, an underpass.
Anny is her only friend. She has russet wool hair, and can make herself flat as a pizza carton. She moves
Like a mote as her lips brush the fringe of her hair, “Anny, are you awake? You better lay still, they are
Right underneath us, if we are not quiet, they’ll come for us “ Its the muttering of a child who’s perfected the art of ventriloquism.
Tied up in sweat knots they leave her no choice, but to press her ear to the floor and listen some more.
Her eyes are heavy dumbbells without raise, and her mind is caught in a fog horn far away. The
Only stir comes from the puppets below, she’s falling deeper and deeper into a solid black hole.
Perhaps sleep will save her tonight, she thinks while losing her wake. Slowly but surely she sinks
Low down below.
February 5, 2014
For Cyndi's Contest: Stephanie Deshphante Painting: The Falling