Casey Gilfillan

Oh mother, how long have those slender
Fingers of yours possessed such fright?
A heavy-handed host to those gaping
Vacancies of mind and spirit, who do
Nowt yet cross and malnourish the flesh.

I suspected an invitation by
Misfortune, in the ways that darkness tends
To linger above those in severe
Desperation for the light. I even

Saw them chase after you as you set the
Garbage bag down on the frothy pavement.
I watched as they nipped your heels and hunted
Your heart. I waited at the door for you,

My feet planted firmly on the frozen
Deck while yours violently roused the snow
From its patient slumber, breathing
New life into that sedentary chill.

It was that night that they came inside,
Pouring in from the imperceptible
Spaces beneath the windows and doors.
I balked at that festering thought,

That wandering fear of origin and maker.
Oh, that impious notion of treason!
I was far too busy watching them spill
Into our home to entertain such doubt.

They filled my lungs like water and weighted
My feet like anchors, pulling me deep
Into that consumptive darkness where I
Mistook a lingering shadow for your presence.

Oh mother, I have always admired
The way you run off into the field,
Scurrying hastily in pursuit of
The time that was never ours and
Reality to which we did not belong.

Months had passed, such lengthy endurance of
Those creatures who, upon seizing me in
My sleep, rattled me of my conviction.
I was left clinging to my bed frame,
Awaiting the recurrence of terror at dawn.

It was your absence that revealed you;
Your duplicitous form rang so true in
The performative depth from which you plunged.
Inherited phantoms remained in your stead.

The taste of nostalgia lingers not in my mind,
But in the gushing, the steady metallic buzz
In my mouth. I always thought it must feel better
Than it tastes; when I asked you, there were no words
But a flood that emerged from my lungs.