THRILLER

I was almost seven, a kid exploring the world.

The path behind my grandfather’s house opened

like a cave to a steep decline in the trees and the

haunting darkness drew me in.

At high noon, a damp light bled through

the canopy of sweet gum, walnut, and locust

to glimmer in the stagnant pools where

the ravine bottomed out in moss, and ferns.

Halfway down the trail was the carcass of

my cousin’s abandoned tricycle bound

tight to the ground by vines. Dead trees,

soft from rot, formed barriers to climb or

crawl under, mushrooms lay ghostly in the depths

to taint the air like chilled fingers from the dirt.

My stomach quivered at the mysteries so close

to the bright rooms back there where folks sat

and laughed over cake and coffee. In the weird

air I tiptoed through the quiet until the bog leaked

over the tops of my shoes. A primeval willow,

its hollow trunk a fissure my size, beckoned.

I left the track in search of magic, bent my head,

and stepped inside.

Someone had mounted the skull of a cow one

foot above my head! One horn curved up, the

other down, to form an image from which it might

be possible to infer the necessary existence of

Salvador Dali. 

Reviews

[Anne Martin]

Vol, I enjoyed that, especially the vivid imagery of the long second stanza. The third was a welcome twist - a kick in the tail. The first almost lost me, until I read the next one, which was extraordinary. If you have read any of my reviews (which you probably haven't), you would know that I try to give my constructive, honest thoughts. I wasn't a cheerleader in school, and I'm not now. I tend to review only when I'm asked to, or when I really like something. Considering our conversation, I thought I would do you the courtesy of seeing where you were coming from, and - I was going to say that I was pleasantly surprised, but that sounds too trite - I'll just say that I was pleased that I did.