I find her in the attic room
Draped in creaking shadow
Bent over a spinning wheel
That thrums the rafters as it turns
Pulling threads
Unravelling my heart
I feel her breath upon my cheek
The camphor smell of cobwebs
With each dusty exhalation
That touches nerves I thought asleep
Waking fears
Seen more clearly in the dark
I see the scissors in her hand
Hear rusty grind of knuckles
As bladed mouth snips shut
That cuts the spittle from her words
Glistening yarn
Leaves snail tracks on the air
I hear her question, cold as drool
'What are you made of, boy?'
Uncoiling silent snakes
That squirm and twist my memories
Breaking dreams
Unboarding attic windows
