Sarah in Elkins

She could sing of murder
with a bright smile like the ghost
of child who doesn’t know she’s dead
and plays hopscotch and jumps rope
alone in a dusty attic.

She said she believed in melody,
that it was a line drawn over a map
in black ink, connecting junctions
and exits, main roads and back roads.
Rhythm to her was everything
a traveler could see along the way.

No accidentals in her,
just clean diving and high bounds.
And a long way to take us back
for the tales of Lord Gregory
or the Ballad of the Gay Old Hag.
We sat in concentrated quiet,
stiff as bricks beneath the stairs.

And her chilling air built in echoes
upon itself and, rising,
sought the line pointing
back to the village
and the century it was born in.