Songs of Anisha
a vigilant mob at the gate . . .
But you look . . . normal—you could be my neighbour!
Tell us, not even the children could still your hand?
Without doubt, what good was I?
They stared like trapped mice
into my eyes with a look that stilled
my heart. Then I heard them
cry, “Uncle Pierre is here, he will save
us!” and heard myself scream
“Even you too—nothing
like the innocent for sacrifice!”
I promised to speak the truth:
I saw them as humans just before
my pupils drowned in the black
pool of the mob’s eyes. What
possessed me? It lurks in you
waits to be roused from its straw
bed a stealth organ hitched to the heart
unknown to the experts of
mind and body it secretes the slow
brooks of bitter blood feeds
the dream of murder in a furious bed.
How do you sleep and wake with the memory of it all?
By sleeping and waking sleeping and waking
and keeping wake for their unmourned corpses,
asking the clock: How many more minutes
have you left me?
I take the pulse of my heart’s auxiliary organ.
I listen every second for echoes of the dying words
that sealed my ears.
I dilate my pupils for the image of terror
nailed to the door of my mind.
I drain my daily cup of elation and grief
wondering when I will next betray myself.
But this is not the truth:
I murdered my childhood
friend and her two children I
led the mob to her house three
doors from mine. I thought
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