Bête Noire
A youth traverses the backbone
of a hidden distract,
feels tombs shift
under his feet.
Incisors extend from
the cobblestones,
draw the seed in
like quicksand – trapdoor
to the underground.
Submergence –
various rocks –
skeletal remains –
momentary blindness –
a long drop
backlit by dread.
Back hits –
back hits what exactly?
A light flickers
to reveal a reservoir.
Bats swim lengths
of radioactivity,
liquefied rosarium
churning in the abyss.
An indetectable carcinogen
permeates in the air,
fizzle of a body
engulfed by acid waves.
The teen tries
to scream but cannot
vocalize his alarm.
When he stands,
there is a screen that shows
him being inhumed
by the Bête Noire.
Bête Noire’s octopus
mouth contorts
in slow motion –
globeflower eyes
unblinking.
Years earlier,
the beast was able
to crawl inside
the boy’s ear.
Now he collapses doorways.
Darkness never sleeps,
only slinks –
grinds prophecy
into reality.
Samuel Strathman is a Jewish poet, author, educator, and editor at Cypress: A Poetry Journal. Some of his poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Acta Victoriana, Quadrant, and Dreams Walking. His first chapbook, “In Flocks of Three to Five” will be released later this year by Anstruther Press. He lives in Toronto, Ontario, Canada.