Rutting did not lift at twilight…The bed is where the haunt is. It knows how you hate to sleep alone, with the weight of three generations of dropsy. It remembers the birthing song.
“A frozen heart, a soul grown cold
But from the ashes I arise
Darkness burning in my eyes”
Outside, the cicadas sawed through the sticky August air, a high, desperate hum that sounded like a fever dream made audible. Inside, the linen sheets… leached with lye until they were thin as wasp nests…clung to the skin like wet sweat.
To lie there was to acknowledge that the past in this county was never truly buried; it was simply invited into the bedroom, given a pillow, and allowed to press its cold, heavy thigh against yours until the sun broke red through the kudzu.
“There is a world between us
There is a sunken garden
Love lies bleeding there
And words they mean nothing”
A beautifully unsettling piece and tender in its haunting. This turned out lovely, Atticus. 🙂
Thank you, Curly.