Home
Alone
by Lynda Williams
No door can protect me from darkness
and those uncertain corners of familiar walls
made primeval by the pawing of a pet
whisper memories of ancient death
remembered in the bowels and not the brain
Silence
violated by a creak;
the furnace an enemy;
windows black membranes
a claw could tear
The campfire tamed
and screwed in place
sustains the tungsten temple
of my faith.
I grasp brands
of bright logic from its core
and hurl them at the burning eyes
beyond the basement walls
