Friday, June 15, 2012

Never Let It In

Never Let It In

The ghoul-faced sick-thing is at the window again,
breathing on the glass; looking in with cold, ravenous eyes.
It glides a razor-sharp fingernail across its throat, feigning my death.
It waits for a sign of fear — a bead of sweat, a mere flinch —
all it needs to break in, leap on the bed, and tear off my head. 

Now it glares into me, searching for fear inside my heart.
A dripping blue tongue swirls over its lips, anticipating a feast —
a feast of blood-wine, intestinal soup, my brain steaming on a plate
while my upturned skull holds minced flesh and severed fingers. 

This is the thing that shows up every Halloween, waking me
in the middle of the night by tapping quietly on the window.
Somehow it triggers the a.m. radio and declares through the static,
I will belly laugh as I digest you. 

So I do the same thing I did last year: I calmly
approach the window and say, You’re not real. You don’t exist.
But this time it doesn’t leave: instead it grins, extends a bony
middle finger, and holds up my mother’s lower jaw.
 
 
 
First appeared in Issue 11 of Death Throes Webzine (2013).

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