POETRY BY TOM DUKE

Tom Duke lives in the foothills near Palomar Observatory (Hale Telescope) with his wife, Michelle, two strange dogs, and a furry gray demon who thinks she’s a cat. His work has appeared in Wyldblood Press, The Horror Zine, HellBound Books, Sirens Call, The Chamber, and Hiraeth Publishing.

MISTRESS

Discarding my heavy boots
my socks
I run barefoot along the dark and twisted
path—the night closing in around me
like unconsciousness. An
orange
October
moon
(the moon, the moon,
so timorous, yet so full!)
dips in and out
of black and even blacker
blackness.
Clouds
ripe and rasty
damn the sky.

“Never be late,” she had warned
“or your usefulness will have been served.”

My breathing grows ragged, yet I quicken my pace
trying to outrun this tap, tap
tapping
at my shoulder, this whispering
in my ear.

Lightening!
The trees that line the path, so tall.
Thunder
mocks the mortal patter of my
feet on earth.
I must run faster.

Flashbulb memories assail my mind
double time
like Charlie Chan on a
roll
roll
roll—
our first meeting, our first
electric kiss, her
current charging through me, yet
her skin, so soft
so cold.

I sense her waking
feel her gravity ripping
my heart, ripping
my subconscious
from its frail
primeval shell.

I try to shake
these thoughts from my mind
shake
them loose like beads of sweat
but I cannot shake
the wanting.

So I penetrate
the red night
as visions
wicked and writhing
spill out onto the path before me
and I realize
I am hers
forever.

At breath’s end
I clear the tunnel of trees
break out
into the meadow. Not far
to go, not far
and I’ll have not betrayed her.

But the wind is a wall.
I’m running through a squall
running
through blind dreams
not gaining, I think
but do not know
for I cannot feel the timbers that were my legs
and there’s a furnace in my chest
raging for air
and I’m crying, and
I cannot see through
the waterfall, and
I think I’m crying for fear I
won’t make it
or crying from dread
if I do
or is it her
I’m crying for?

Somehow my legs
have found the fence; the gate
thrashes to-and-fro, hammering
the latch post, hammering
inside my head in rhythm
with the wind
The cabin, gray as rot, looms
ahead—a mausoleum.
I think: “God
don’t let me be late.” Yet…
I hesitate.
Why have I come again
to this place?

I know…
I’ve lost my choice

My fingers fumble
inside my pockets—the key
the key—
loose and twisting
and a door swings open
in my mind
as I float
the final few feet.

Her eyes open
eat mine.

Her lips part. Two
white flashes
seek flesh
and my consciousness
decays
as I lean in
to midnight.