Day 8

It’s time for our second Tuesday of the month, which happens to be Election Day here in the States. Hope everyone has fun casting ballots today.

Here are the options for today’s “Two for Tuesday” prompt:

1. Write a paranormal poem. In case you’re unsure, click here for a thorough definition of the term “paranormal.”
2. Write a normal poem. I’m not sure what a normal poem is, but if you do (and you want to write one), go for it!

Still Night.  Still, Night

There were the usual things: the sudden 

drops of temperature,

the hangers 

swinging on their own

in the closet in the Green Room.

Always on a windless day.

Everyone had a story.

We were all outside.  All of us.  All there.  

He looked up from his paper

as someone passed the window

-inside.

Deep in the night, of course,

in the Green Room, of course,

I was alone, of course,

and the grasp sliding up my leg

woke me - it turned and pulled!

I screamed and ran and jumped

into my sister's bed, we laughed

but ..  they just were there.

Even if we didn't believe in them.

A cousin said: whispering.

Even in the afternoon.

Another, later, after our loss, lost in grief,

felt a possession and, thrown back

on the bed as if pushed, let out a cry that was not his.

It was multiple, he said

More than his own.

How could he explain it?

No one liked the hallway.

Even those who didn't acknowledge the activity.

Especially, no one

liked the Green Room.

But on that night, alone with the oldest, newly motherless child.

there were three thumps - the exact sound: body dropping to the floor - 

What was that?

Don't move!

Later.  How much later. I had lost her in the house.

Thump! (two)  Where are you?

Where are you?

There in the parlor in the dark, just sitting.

- upstairs, now!

We slept in the girl's room.  Refuge sought in the last

echo of childhood innocence 

- the tiny bed, covered in stuffed animals.

The bed outgrown, too small, too small for two and innocence: 

- no.

My sister's room was actually less haunted.

It was safe in there somehow.  At least from them.

But she had just died at it was too much.

The girls room was next to that, their parent's room, a door

between them, the bed we were in now next to the door.

We huddled together there. 

She had no idea how frightened I was.  
All I could do to be strong was not 
scream, not cry, not let on.  Then, soon, I was alone,
the girl fluttering to dreams,

needing no one

flutterflutterflutterflutter

flutterflutterflutterflutter

flutterflutterflutterflutter

flutterflutterflutterflutter

The door didn't flutter it banged against the bed

in dark on dark i could see it knocking

wood against wood

shuttering hard
moving and knocking
most actually

look outside then: bright moonlight. bright.

leaves.  not not a breath of wind

outside there look

not a breath of wind

breath oh, or breath  for the ghosts whose house

this has always had been

what did they want from me?

if they knew me they would know I would know

this house has always been theirs

since the john dropped dead in the Green Room

right inside one of the girls 

in the Green Room

at the end of the hall

and, who then?,

carried him to his carriage

dressed again like a good man, but dead

forever now

and slapped his horse's ass

and the clop echoes down the way

maybe there had been more

deaths.  surely there had been.

the attic ached with history

and knew, and muttered to us,
how brief we ourselves

would be

the door banged against the bed

againandagainandagain

and the stuffed animal

unwound

made its noises and lit up

singing

and a third body - thump

it was not my sister's ghost

nor my sister's body

no.  

they were there

that night wild as the wind I wished was outside

not one leaf turned

did they want me afraid?

whose bodies were there then dropping?

no one was there.

it was just me and the girl 

and the still dark night

and the still dark pool at the end of the lawn

and empty beds in every, many room

never again to fill.

did they know?

what could they want me to awaken to?

what could they want me to do?

to realize I could not protect

this child? or myself even?

No.  It was about them.

the last time they would 

have a home

a place to observe

- one guesses -

the living

and the dying

those who have bodies

that can scream 

and can cry

who will hear until they themselves die

the untranslatable need

in 

flutterflutterflutterflutter

flutterflutterflutterflutter

a need that will be

denied.