Last Night, Dear

December 30, 2007
By Alyssa Duck, Soddy Daisy, TN

last night, dear, you haunted me.
it was strange.
although still with me-
and quite alive-
i felled you like a torrent,
like a raindrop, like a flood.
i shot up in bed,
clutching the covers
like a schoolgirl hiding
from a closeted monster.
the room was quite empty-
black and lonely,
as though every watching angel
had hastily deserted me
in my ill fate.
drops of water swelled
and laced the edge of my lashes
like frosting on so many
dissheveled teacakes.
i shivered.
i'm sure i was pale as december,
startling as may.
alarming thoughts drove into my head,
pounding in my skull
like pegs into dry wood.
i tried, dear-oh, how i tried!
i imagined all sorts of things-
anything to make me feel-
and came up empty,
as though a handsome stranger
presented me a blank sheet of paper.
drops of sweat beaded
on my neck
like startled bees,
stinging me with salt.
then it happened-
i raised my head up and murmured:
god! i don't love him.
there! i said it.
my eyes scored the room warily.
i don't, i don't, i don't.
it crept accross my weary brain
like a drug, like a moss.
and i laid my head on my pillow-
quite unarmed-
my eyes fluttering shut in sleep.

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