Friday, April 28, 2017

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

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