Still I Have Not Died
…and that, I think for us both, is the worst of it
There once was a cave
where tree roots drank
from dark pools that stirred
the breaths of the damned
no birds sang in branches
no wind song, no melodies
only a deep, deathly silence
villagers came bearing iron and salt
protection against the supernatural
the dark malevolent forces
and to contain the souls of the dead
fire consuming their ropes of pitch
they came to bear witness to my birth
in the hollow corners of darkness
my mother wept as I appeared
no midwife dared to assist
for my face was disfigured
and my eyes the colour of crows
born slick, screaming and strange
wrapped in a cord, a noose of fate
a dark omen, they cried
an abomination, a soulless creature
and in their fear, they burned the cave
sealing the opening with stones
over time the ground constantly cracked
and the trees wept blood when it rained
I was the child she prayed not to bear
softly and often, she told me so
as if whispering could undo
the horrific shape of my face
she said that the stars had warned her
and she marked my door
with nettles and chalk
she kept me from mirrors
as if prophecy blooms from reflection
and children held their breath
if they saw me, even from far away
dogs and cats never crossed my shadow
and even the priests
would not lay their hands upon me
finally, she left me alone
sometimes I still see her in dreams
her veils soaked through with ink
a deep, desolate, darkness
where her eyes should be
there are windows to a sky
I cannot name and will never really see
I grow older but not further away
from the thing that she feared
and still, I have not died
and that, I think for us both
is the worst of it
© Ann Bagnall
