The Woman

Daylight is slowly abating

Night is a long lonely street waiting.

The crow and the pigeon

Are winging their way across an ebbing evening sky.

The shadows are lengthening stretching creeping fingers

Across the stray grey grass on the flaking footpaths flanking the purple street.

Making old the phantom trees - their wraithlike arms merging into magenta skies.

The ghostly buildings and the blind streetlights melting into the charred shadows of the night.

In the dimly lit lane at the end of the lonely street

A bunch of stringy street dogs get into a snarling fight.

The house stands alone and still on the empty street.

Its eyes dead yellow lights, its walls peeling grey skin – faintly familiar.

An overgrown garden filled with thorn and weeds.

A girl singing a song on the swing winging squeak squeak.

Olive dusk skin, silky black hair flying in the still wind.

Singing with her childish voice flying high in the sky on broken wings.

From deep inside the bowels of the house I hear a voice quavering

Calling my name –

I peer in through the windowpane, tapping on the grimy glass

I call to the woman sitting in the shadows, in the corner of the room.

A traveller I am, travelled long days and nights I have, and on my way home – I say

Tired I am of bone, weary I am of feet, why are you calling my name – I ask

With the slow step of beleaguered time the woman rises and brings her face to me

Her eyes empty sockets, her face peeling grey skin – strangely familiar.

With sudden shock, all at once I know – The face facing me is ME!

My mind stumbling, shouts – If she is I, then who am I? If I am me, then who is she?

Dead street with your flaking path, dead streetlights with your empty sockets, dead house with your peeling skin – TELL ME!

Only the street dogs snarl in reply.

 In the overgrown garden filled with thorn and weeds

An empty swing winging squeak squeak squeak squeak.

-by Rita Putatunda