May 2017 poem of the month

A Bat Invades our Summer Bungalow

In late August when deer feel it is safe

to wander across Sullivan Road

and black bears sniff out

the last ripe berries

before September’s chill

my mother airs out the bungalow

of stifling heat and wilted roses

first planted many summers ago.

She leaves open a window

and puts us to sleep

to the aroma of cold pine bark

and moss dripping wet in the moonlight

when it enters like a sudden awakening

to a nightmare and tumbles deep into itself;

a silhouette collecting darkness

as a wound discolors skin

to blanket the room with its wings.

Its madness drives my mother mad

with her one hand on top of her hair

in a bun while the other holds a broom

as the moon eavesdrops

against the wooden walls

and the sky thins into a faded blue

but this flying leech does not fly

and that’s the thing that scares her most

as she watches it spread out its body

like a lost continent on a map

of white and yellow plastered walls

with its tiny eyes bulging and gritty teeth

fangs whiter than the kitchen lamp light

beaming light house signals

to sea creatures on the horizon.

She turns on all of the lights

and locks us in the bedroom

while she chases this sticky chunk of flesh,

its heart beating against one wall   

then leaping to another turning my mother

into a housewife Don Quixote with a broom

muttering words like a lost tongue

only she and it would understand.

They danced this way in the cold summer air,

she afraid it would nest in her hair

and it afraid the stars would not show the way

to the endless darkness it longed for.

Steven Pelcman

Schuylkill Valley Journal USA spring 2014