The Cross

Mad drunk

Mad with grief

Mad with death

Mad at everybody

Just mad

That’s what they’ll say

Poor fellow

Died young, poor girl

Must have been drunk

Or dreaming

Broken

Falling

That’s all it is

It’ll pass

These thoughts screamed out

No

No

Tell no one

A secret

It’s private

Not for the telling

Faith

No Faith

What was it?

It’s gone

So here goes

Believe or don’t

Swear it to be true

No more can be said

Two months in she came

An apparition in name

Terrifying and true

Torture that turned face blue

Screaming

Scared

Only one word

John

John

John

Over and over

Again and again

In the dark bedroom, curtains closed

Jumped up and sat on the bed

It was as real as my hand

As real as your hand

Then silence

Hands shaking, legs wobbling

I grabbed a knife in the kitchen

And carved it into the wall

Small beside the headboard

So I would know it was true

So I would know I did not dream it

So I would know I am not mad

Long gone

Many years

But even now it brings me peace

That through this pain, joy exists.

And often I wonder

Is there a faint line to see

Of that cross I carved beside the bed