Betsy Mars
Apparitions
I imagined man...noting acoustic phenomena whose nature and provenance he cannot determine. And I grew afraid of everything around me – afraid of the air, afraid of the night. — Guy de Maupassant, Complete Works
You look to the sky, hearing a flutter
of wings, and nothing is there
but questions. You imagine
a coven of bare bones in your future -
time-stripped, a vulture sated --
every ounce of what's meaty eaten,
unwasted. A wing-whispered voice
in your mind's ear teases, baiting:
Here is what's left of your beloved.
You cower, bereft and listening.
Schizophrenic imaginings:
a light touch when you're alone,
a flash of father in his favorite chair,
an olfactory memory of cologne.
What need have we for witches
or psychics and mediums
when the crones in your conscience
hover so near, with their gapped teeth
and darkened eyes so like a former lover,
carrying a basket of all you didn't
conceive or failed from negligence?
—
Previously published in Ekphrastic Review.
Lazaro Galdiano Museum
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