Waiting for Release

In the Dark

He lies
in the gloom and wastes
and waits.
He is tired.

He dreams
of the time before.

The moon clings to clouds.
The dogs sing
to the unburdened air.

In the dream he lifts his son
to the sky
settles him on a red horse,
offers it a sweet.

He wakes --
the vision of his baby
laughing,
tangled in the mane
of a wild thing,
blood
spit
tears.

~Elodie Pritchartt

On the First Cold Day of 2018

Today felt like first winter when you're kind of delighted it's Christmastime but the sky is pewter and the air is cold and you wonder if it's ever going to be a bright, sunshiny day again. Halfway between desolation and utter joy.

You think of all the dead, but also of the children who still wonder at the magic. And the knowledge that one day in the not-too-distant future, you'll be among the dead they're missing at the table, wishing you could make it easier for them.

In the meantime, the constellations turn in their heavens and never notice the tiny starts and finishes of the ants who live upon this hill. And people wonder why I never make the bed.

11/01/2018

Poor Monster

In the quiet morning,
beneath the cashmere calm,
behind the dog's soft snoring
and the purring knead
of pink-ed flesh,

a chill threatens
from the door
that won't quite close.
The wind
teases the cracks
around the casement,

searches for purchase
on the slippery ledge,
its sucking need just
outside.

The winter sky
has gone dull white,
a rictus that sucks
the color from the earth,
and no thousand trees'
brown fingers can
pull it back.

It is the season
that signals death,
when the weak tire
of waiting and the strong
grow tired.

It perches on the sill,
spies through the shutters
ruffles it feathers
and waits for the shattering.

Poor Monster.

It is consumed with lonely
and it wants only you.
Wrap yourself in dread
and wait for the
final signal bell.

The last train leaves at dusk.

~ Elodie Pritchartt

August 12, 2007