CW: None.

Some time ago, I woke from a dream in which I had gone missing. Over the course of the ensuing sunlit hours, I could not rid myself of the overwhelming feeling that everyone around me was somehow overlooking my presence. Despite this, I carried on, albeit shaken by the sensation. That night, I lay in bed awake, afraid to sleep. As one day spilled over into the next and my eyes began to drowse reflexively, I heard a voice that scratched and scraped at my ear, as if entreating entrance. Against my better judgement, I attended to the sound, and heard the words of this poem.

I do not know if it is a curse, or a lullaby.

Perhaps it is both.

—TJP

At the last possible moment.
At the stricken hour, at the
last breath, at
the slow, final closing
of the bedroom door.

At the whisper
no one else can hear.
At the leaving.
At the silent frowns
turned your way
when you speak.

At the toothsome dark.
At the sawn fields.
At the old premonition.

At the snickering click
of unseen jaws
in the gloom.

At what burned down
before it grew,
then walked home,
shedding ashes like
black snowflakes.

At dawn, or midnight,
or twilight, and what black sap
oozed out of the sky.

At what holes appear,
overnight, in
all the walls.

At the urge to enter.
At the need to leave.

At the mirror which isn’t.
At the window, at
the door,
but never past.

At the silent breakfast and
at the loud lunch. At the
thank-you and
at the goodbye.

At the moon-drenched ritual.
At the last breath.
At the turn of the wheel.
At the scrape of the fork
on the plate.

At the moment you
turn to me and quote
that old premonition.

At the moment
I hear it.

At the moment
it comes true.