Longlisted for the OSP Poetry Competition
I rose from my grave to the sound of bells. I shed
the spent wings of a thousand flies, lifting the sheets
that were my shroud. The smoke of burning houses
seems an incense in the air. I am yet too weak to call
down to the street and my neighbours have gone for
fear of death. My husband is cold in a wintry bed,
gaunt hands crossed upon his chest, lavender pillowed
at his head. Deep in a fever dream I heard them go:
my son, nose dripping in his plague mask, my sniffling
daughter-in-law hugging my jewellery box. Lost in that
crucible of sleep I heard a stranger knock: charity asking
who might still abide, who might yet breathe. I did not
answer, deep in the dumb well of my dreams, I heard
them tap the boards across our door, nail a notice to
my doom, but I was in the cave our Saviour once left
and could not speak. I’ve woken to the bells’ carillon
from the cathedral, counting out doubtful blessings,
calling the faithful to give thanks. I would come kneel
amongst them, catch their guilty eyes, show my wounds.
I will say, ‘touch the buboes that now subside. I have
come from the quiet house of death. I have nothing
but this shift to wear, nothing but these scars for robes.’
I was not led from that dark place by any God clothed
in the harrowed flesh of a man, nor any sorrowing
angel’s embrace. Only by smoke and the sound of bells.
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