The Mallacht

In the beginning a nightmare will slither in. Let me tell you about her.
Shrewdly, her clandestine watch will begin beneath the streetlamp,
but in the shade of your garden hedge. There she’ll crouch, patiently,
until she hears your key engage with the metal lock of the brown door.

Quick as a zip, she’ll slant diagonally across your lawn.
Her teeth will interlock with your shadow and you’ll carry her inside
on your back. Gullibly, you’ll see only the dark, purpling of the night,
but when the nape of your neck itches, you’ll scratch it and shiver.

You’ll twist and turn your head in front of a mirror, intensely
searching for the inflamed bite of a flee, or the birth of a boil,
but all you’ll see will be the pink tracks of your own fingernails
as you scrape. Despite a change of sheets, scraping will rock your bed.

When, finally, you greet sleep with a deep exhale, she’ll begin her burrowing
to measure the quality of your backbone. If you’re weak you will easily feel her
because, as you roll to turn over on the in-breath, you will absorb her
into your vertebrae, where she’ll plot her way up each bone into your brain.

There, in her nightclub she’ll begin her striptease, shedding back your layers;
the veils designed to protect you from seeing yourself as you really are.
As the veils expose and peel back from your skin, you’ll first writhe in ecstasy
before plunging into lurid fears of walking naked in public anguish.

Yes, in the beginning, a nightmare will slither in. But, it’s only the beginning
and I will take your hand, like you took mine to be cuffed in chains.
I will also be there to lead you through the night, like when you had me lead
to that dark gaol of horror... in the beginning, when my nightmare slithered in.