Another Quiet Horror Story

I am sat at my writing desk, writing.
The air of light comes through
the closed window. My wife
sits on the sofa, working away.
Such moments are filled with
the undomesticated bliss
of life's long day.
But night comes on so suddenly,
as if it were inside us already.
I think back to the other morning, in bed,
inspecting the woven quality
given by the broken white islands to her flesh.
I know that sometimes our faces must look grim
when we don't know that anyone is watching,
nor even realise that we are thinking,
the walking dead of grief's perplex.
But it is faster and more total than that -
this stricken dark that finds me now.
Chou? I ask, my voice as calm as it can be,
Chou, what has happened to the electricity?
There is no answer from the sofa.
Now where did I leave my two-eyed torch?
My brand new Chinese reading snake?
I want to rise, I want to pull myself up,
I want to leave this chair behind,
this throne of fire & ice!
But I am frozen, and the only light I know
is my own stubborn tongue resisting me,
refusing to scream as I fall forward,
deep into the language of the birds,
to become a turning knowledge
half nuzzled in the dirt:
all which says must hurt.

(written this morning, after waking from just such an experience, appropriately enough after reading Ace Boggess' wonderful short story "Enlightenment" in the most recent edition of The Cenacle: Cenacle 114, December 2020.)

This article was updated on May 24, 2021

Sam Knot

I am a poet and illustrator, originally from the south of England, now living in an old stone house in the middle of the countryside in Normandy, France, with my lovely wife and an assortment of other creatures. Thank you kindly for checking out my work, please don't hesitate to get in touch: iam (at) "this website".