by Amy MacLennan
Not so much a heap of logs,
but a place to hide. And not for us,
but them. In the darkness
of December, we screak down
basement stairs to a skitter
of claws on cement, a shift
among the sticks. And we choose
only the wood on top, checking
beneath each branch
for trailing webs:
even rotten bark is suspect.
As we turn back to the steps,
we imagine our dearest
nightmares curling
on the cellar floor,
slinking toward a gap in the stack
to join their brothers
in the spaces we keep
for our fears. Nameless.
WILLOWS WEPT REVIEW 