Anniversary
by
Amethyst

My heart marks its own calendar.
It is the evening of the day
Duane Barry broke through my window
and changed the pattern of my life.

I don't want to be here
alone tonight.
And for that reason I stay
to prove I can dispell
the shadows moving in
uncharted corners of my soul.

Flashes
like heat lightning, there and gone,
reveal apparitions felt more than seen,
figures I command the dark to swallow
before I have to look.

Shapes
of branches creep along the wall,
shadow hands elongated, seeking.
My eyes feel wide and staring,
I clutch my cup of tea.

The refrigerator comes on;
I jump, splashing chamomile.
The phone rings and the cup
crashes to the floor.

I cradle your voice
to me with trembling hands.
Your words drone softly
about nothing in particular,
driving back ghosts,
making me stop listening
to the pounding of my heart.

Grateful and sad,
I almost see you sitting there,
eyes closed,
remembering, reliving--
a veteran of shadows
imparting to me
a weary catechism,
the rite of anniversaries
we commemorate
at dusk.