Viktor Volkov
She took me to her attic
uncreaking, up those dusty stairs
led by a sickly cold – frail hand
hung thick with cobwebs but mostly bare
Watcher Lover Caretaker
My conscience said, “Don’t follow her there.”
Toes dancing ‘round pillars of white
stirred clouds of dust and unvoiced fears
Back pressed firm to chimney stacks
she said:, she spent most of her time up here
beckoned on by fierce silver eyes
reflecting mine in fractured mirrors
She settled to the barren floor
I gripped my chest – avoided her stare
offered from her open palm, she bestowed
the absence which bound her here
I lay her in a circle of salt
so heavy and wet – she shivered
crying, “No, yes, please, get on with it.”
a torn cotton dress – her shakes became severe
I took a hammer to her attic floor
Feral eyes swirled and sank in pools of tears
She splintered into pieces and slipped
between the cracks in her weathered boards
With a hard-heeled boot I kicked
the shutters from her boarded window
Street lights illuminated the rafters
In defiance, her wraith appeared
A specter stripped of twilight
clutching walls digging nails sprouting fingers
I dragged her up to the roof
She hissed a tender curse within my ear
In the glow of San Francisco midnight
she became corporeal and shimmered
then stroked my arm and hand in mine
we let loose the slate black roof
Together we broke the roles our lives defined
We flew among eucalyptus trees
where the oil- slicked ocean bleeds
and left her attic behind.