I remember Lena
grey crone powdered corpse white
with smeared cherry juice lips gone
wrong, unthickened, loose and
puddling in her flat pieplate face.
She pushed the stroller
round and round the estate circle drive
talking to the dead doll
cradled inside, stopping to pull
the shade further forward
over its face, crooning a sing song,
mumbled pieces falling
like rotting leaves
on its face.
Lena was always cold
and so was her dollbaby, in two
ragged red sweaters reverse cross-buttoned
one to the other muffling and protecting
in the high summer sun she
walked round and round avoiding.
I watched from the coachhouse window
holding my son she was not supposed
to see, because she might, they
said, "do something." Round and round
her breastsacks clutched to her ribs
carried empty in her stick arms
never suckled but once
by the child that died.
I remember feeling
sorry for her
till the day she hissed
and showed me her
Blue Flute is hosting today, and the prompt is Vampires.
Pub doors are open till midnight Sunday EST.
Open your poetic vault, set the Undead loose and join us.
Process Notes: Based on a true story, (though 'Lena' was only insane, and not a vampire) from a summer spent in haunted New England many years ago.
Image: Conjuring Owls, by Max Kimber. on flick'rShared under a Creative Commons License