I'm sorting pictures in the archive box.
Shelved for that day that I kept putting off.
The job's to cull and have less stuff to store,
but spiders lurk and snakes are sliding out.

The photo shouts in raw dismemberment.
A howling wind, the prowl of packs of wolves.

I stare at trembling splinters held so close.
Her daytime Self looks like a sweet old dame.

I hear again the creak as floorboards pause;
my breath is held lest I miss steps that halt,
outside my door in seconds held at bay.

I see the handle
   slowly...
      lower..
         down.

Her strides are swift and next, her perfume's here.
With broken breath, she yields to clawing drives
and throws my bedclothes off like spider webs.

My youth she steals as night groans on and on.
For merchants took her bloom on stormy sea.

I clutch my knife and picture stabbing her;
But I've no strength to do the deed - I'm five.

Her mouth is pushed on lips zipped up and cold.
The bed is torn in tangled bits of knots.
My legs are jammed together- ripped apart.
My pillow's wet as aunty takes her cut.