Lament of the Afflicted
/Deborah-Zenha Adams
In that year of subtle omens, all the irises
bloomed yellow, harbingers of passion and betrayal,
and we cut bouquets to fill a broken vase.
Next there came a wailing wind
even though the burdened air was stalled
and bamboo chimes hung stagnant.
Words you never spoke brushed like premonition
against my neck, a witching chill
that froze our tongues and sliced the truth.
Lightning flashed and thunder knocked
three times, an incantation calling out the demons
that cackle when we tiptoe past closed doors.
I’ve heard footsteps in the attic,
found a trail of black feathers on the stairs,
and tasted cold metal in my cheek.
Shades appear at the treeline between dark and day
crooking their fingers, beckoning, taunting.
Sometimes I close my eyes and imagine going there.
Did we break the seal of some pharaoh’s tomb,
defile a sacred cloth, cross a black cat’s path?
Isn’t there a counter spell to correct our sins?
What would I offer in trade to erase
the trail we’ve left? Can we unspin the wheel
and chance we’ll get it right the second time?
Never mind. I know better. There’s no stopping
the forward motion of a curse once
it learns the taste of your name.
Deborah-Zenha Adams is a seventh-generation Tennesseean. Her written work has appeared or will soon appear in Adelaide Literary Magazine, Sheila-na-gig, One, The Orchards Poetry Journal, and Waterwheel Review, among other places.
