Last night in the arcane landscape
of darkness, while my actual body
remained in the safe soft confines
of headboard and fitted sheet,
I drove some wild dirt back road
at 80, dust everywhere, radio loud
her beside me on hot red leather
all at once terrible and terrifying.
I knew it was her again. As usual,
I couldn’t see her face but I knew,
when we found ourselves naked,
later, the musty room sun-slatted,
it would be her again, urging me
to pay the voodoo priestess, drink
deep from the proffered chalice,
let the ravens circle in and dive,
dive. I knew it would be her again.
When I raised the knife, I knew.
Ron. Lavalette is a very widely-published poet living on the Canadian border in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom, land of the fur-bearing lake trout and the bilingual stop sign. His work, both poetry and short prose, has appeared extensively in journals, reviews, and anthologies ranging alphabetically from Able Muse and the Anthology of New England Poets through the World Haiku Review and Your One Phone Call. A reasonable sample of his published work can be viewed at EGGS OVER TOKYO.
*This poem was originally published in the poetry journal Your One Phone Call.