The Night Visitors
They know how to jimmy locks when
I'm curled in utero, creep like cats into corners
where darkness is deepest, or by the edge
of my bed where, freed from sleep's fist-
hold, I find them in the silence
keeping watch like winged messengers
of Biblical times. But they do not
bear tidings or pronouncements
in rhymes. They are silent by definition,
and sure of their mission,
you see mouths moving though no sound
is made, as when one of their company
snuggles close to my body like a lover in bed,
whispering wordless secrets
left better unsaid. Embodied,
but faceless, my nocturnal guests
come as close as we get to that Stygian
scythe. They are ghosts in the garden,
rehearsing their deathwatch
when I leave this life.
posted for Carolyn Devonshire
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