The Bats

I spoke to the bats after bedtime

At the witching hour, when,

formless, at first,

the inky blackness

would emerge from the walls

into paperthin wings.

And the glimmer of two tiny green jewels

would meet the glimmer of mine

Blinking, wide-eyed, unmoving,

My sweet phantoms.

I spoke to them after bedtime

when the door cracked open a sliver

and my limbs would tense into numbness.

Footsteps, the creak of the bedframe.

An unwelcome hand.

Then I’d summon my friends,

my apparitions,

and watch them fly in silence

across the ceiling.

Some nights they’d flutter

Like young butterflies just released from their cocoons

Other times I would watch them in slow motion,

Like manta rays patrolling some dark sea.

Always, they would stare

And it hypnotized me.

But when the door creaked closed again,

So would my trance.

And the bats would fade back into their caves,

The corners of the room.

I begged them not to go,

But the little jewels would blink into blackness,

Evaporated.

The pain would come easily, now.

And I’d ask the bats to not let me remember,

But unwelcome hands leave red marks,

And there’s only so much the bats can do.