"Good Night, Gerald."

It began with subtlety

A little corner of myself, saved for evenings
Half entranced walks to there,
to enjoy what little was there
The rest of me was covered in wet earth already

Smells; burlap, pine, beans, greasy stains
on the floor
Sights; ghostly slivers of moonbeams on the walls–the rafters,
splintered wood, warped wood, hobbled wood, packed wood,
black as a bunted cigar, my fingers. My little stubs
Sounds; the thin, dry crackle of a cigarette as it
dwindles to the filter, popping sounds as the hearth
spat and fumed, and the scratching...of course
But it was subtle, at first;
like the wind that dredges a bony ratta-tat-tat
from the brittle bones below the sill

After a week, I took it to hire a boy
I paid him two dollars to prune the garden
that scratched and disturbed me
He smirked, asking,
“What Garden, mister?
There is only weeds and branches!”
I gave him the use of my trail,
the one that lead into the brook stream
A nod from him and an odd sneer,
but he did it
and it stopped
and I read

For three days, no sound but the cool,
shuddering breaths that came through the spaces
in the window frame
The words of many tongues,
were at ease with my probing fingers

I thought of her a great deal
The tears came in torrents
I  would throw things, break things,
pace    the      floor

But I would NOT go into the bedroom

They started again one night
I knew no bones were in my garden any longer,
below the sill–only shadows,
blooming in the night like roses,
so,
what could it be?
I looked, peering from the little corner

There it was, but briefly; a small white thing,
curled, dragging along the panes of glass,
leaving a dirty smudge and the scratching noise of it...was horrible

Dusk waltzed through the valleys of my heart
for weeks
I drew deeper into the little corner,
but no safety did it offer me
I had burned the books for warmth, after the
furniture and as much wood as I could spare
Food, what little there was originally,
was eaten
I wouldn’t go out
It begin to stink inside
The daylight was a trick. It was night
It was always night after Mary came back

The soft–yet quick–and somehow achingly
feminine rush of footsteps came to me always
It was maddening
On the front porch, up along the outside walls,
the roof
God, yes, even the roof!

She ran five full moons into the ground
Sunlight was a lie
Wouldn’t go out

The knocks came after a while, flurried,
pounding through me, every bone and muscle
felt them
I would scream so loudly, for as long as my throat
would allow, beat my fists on the floor,
throw myself on it when my knuckles were bloody,
just    to    drown    out    the    noise

A sigh hung inside my chest, like a lantern
burning out, swaying in a cold gust of wind

So I opened the door, at last
I kissed my wife again and told her I was a brute
for what I did
She nodded
She laid me down next to her,
outside in the garden,
where no bones are,
but ours

The little corner of myself faded
I felt cold earth tumble down on me
in thick, wet clumps
“Good night Gerald.” She whispered
Svelte fingers pressed my eyelids

The lantern went out