I could feel her
behind me when I
sat down at the computer
to type a poem that had
nothing to do with her.
First it was just a
sense of not being
alone in the room.
Something like fingers,
no, wings inches from
the back of my neck.
Not a touch, really,
but something and a
certain smell too:
sooty, or like some
thing that's been outside
for a long time that
you bring in the house.
After one line that
had nothing to do with
her, the black angel
began her moves. It was
as if she had some magical
way to become part of
anything I was thinking,
her dark face becoming the
black clouds that move
from the lake, turning
a nature poem to a
ghost story, dragging dead
oak leaves to make a mound
over a new grave that had
not been there yesterday,
dragging the night into my
house while all I was doing
was trying to write about the
lilies, not stories of murdered
children. Under her blackness,
under the rumors of her own
child's death in the leaves
where she left him she
made up a spell and she was
in a hurry, the light was moving
in and I guess when I went to
type, she jumped the computer,
broke it so it kept saying NO
PAPER tho the printer was full.
She made it refuse. It was as if
she got inside that too and it
wasn't until 5 hours later, when
the room was flooded with light,
that I saw a difference, shadows,
I didn't remember before.
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