Damp. Mud. Leaves.
She crawls on her belly
a gap under creaking stair
hides herself there
and still, like a stone
shallow, hard to take air
something damaged in there
she swallows, blood
a little too much
and listening –
black pupils, wide eyes
lenses open to receive the light
unaware; cobwebs in hair
like a virgin’s white veil
she rests, numb, cold and unfeeling
broken body, eyes closed
until rumbling motor on approach
signals his return –
where he will soon discover
the empty room, the mattress bare
no – no play thing there
he will search for her into the night
with loaded rifle and flashlight
but unmoving, she will remain
safe to let herself forget
this perfect secret-hidey space
here will be her resting place
— until one afternoon,
a week from today
as he waves the flies from his face
and lifts a panel from its place
finds her body in fresh decay.