An Eve of Wind and Shakespeare

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

This wind of eve
has a tinge of Hamlet’s madness
that harbors
the fear of this world
and the next.

The howling witch
casts a fear of man
across my throat and chin.
Blackness seeps
into my brain.
We cannot live,
nor do we want to die.
It is the worst of life and death.

How can I say
or write this word
when she takes
my tongue and hands
and leaves in their place
twigs to scratch with.

I glimpse the view
of the moon backwards
in my mirror—a kinder,
gentler heart.

This windy eve has a tinge
of Hamlet’s madness.

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Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry

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