I heard it rattle in the night
\nfrom the kitchen far within
\nbeyond the shadows on the stairs
\npast the dark’s own dust
\nwhere moth wings dry to powder
\nin furtive, splintered corners
\nout of harm’s way<\/p>\n
Descending barefoot to the sound
\ncold air coiled round my legs
\nkitchen sucked in moonlight
\nerrant pots shone icy still
\ncut in stained linoleum
\na covered door heaved
\nlunged at from below<\/p>\n
It was not there by day
\nthe straining, urgent door
\nthe floor lay seamless then
\nwaxed to glib connivance
\nbeneath our family’s feet
\na worn spot at the sink, one curled lip along the stove
\nwere all the wear that showed until tonight<\/p>\n
Though I could not imagine
\nwho had hewn this flimsy door
\nfit the unconvincing latch
\nnor what exactly clattered there
\nI read the summons in the dark
\npressed both hands against the lid
\nheld back what would be born<\/p>\n
I urged the tangled sleepers
\nto help me meet the brunt
\nthey shifted in their heavy beds
\nwondered what had made them turn
\npulling taut the silent sheets
\nthey settled deeper from the brink
\nbeneath the weight of dreams<\/p>\n
There! the coarse lid almost lifts
\nmy patient foe will surely win
\ndredge its shape into our house
\nspeak its tale in every ear
\nmake us set another place
\nwhen we would rather turn away
\nto darn our socks and watch t-v<\/p>\n
My hoard of strength is nearly spent
\nand I grow weary of my post
\nof lonely fears, the bulk of night
\nwhile its crude life beats steady on
\nbesieges sense with fierce intent
\nlike infants claw their given names
\napart from every other noise<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
“The Brink” was published in the anthology\u00a0True Confessions<\/em>, Los Angeles, CA, 1993.<\/p>\n
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