Beneath The Height Of Land

Beyond the windblown Height of Land
An equally windblown town
Off Route 17 running north to Quebec
Reached by rutted road
Neglected by county and state
The town has no name on a map The few score of inhabitants call it Dogtown

There are no dogs
Nor knowledge of dogs

The town is more a clearing with buildings
Worn weary by winters
Harsh and long
Under the Height of Land.

The houses and shops and church bear witness
To the cold, snow, ice, sleet, slush, and blizzards
There is no global warming here
There is no summer.

This is the true North
Beyond stretches the deeper North
With only two seasons
The season of preparing for wintah and Wintah.

The towns people, young and old, walk like the dead
They are not dead
They live
Sad, frightened, unattached to the modern world
No cable TV
No cell phones
No Internet.

They are where they are

Dogtown
Surrounded by swamps

A battered van creeps down the street
A young man behind the wheel
He parks before the church
He gets out of the car
A letter in his hand

A man rakes the church lawn
The young man lifts the letter
Written by a beloved grandmother

He reads the name.
His aunt.
He saw her once
Twenty years ago
At her brother's funeral
Outside Portland
On Falmouth Foresides
On Portland harbor

White blonde hair, translucent skin, bones visible,
Moving like an ancient reincarnation
Her finger touched his face
Fingers colder than ice.
Her silver blue eyes on Portland
Like it had once been hers.

No smell of the sea
In Dogtown
Surrounded by the vapor of swamps.

The young man says his aunt's name

Elyssas Commons

The man points to a house
Across the road
A big house
Desperate for paint
The lawn a jungle
A Benz rusting on its axles
Its last ride
A long time ago.

The old man returns to raking
The young man walks to the porch
Each step answered by a creak
The walls
The floors
Caked ashen dust
Unsullied by wind or rain or sleet
No one has been here in a long time.
A knock on the door.
Nothing
He calls her name.

Elyssas

Whispers of footsteps
The door opens
Her aunt smiles with yellowed teeth
Her see-through gown reveals magic
She has not aged a day
She
Maybe a child
Maybe a crone
Beckoning finger.

He steps inside
The house a mausoleum
Her bare feet
Pad on dust turned to powder.
The glossamer gown hides nothing
Skin white as Virgin vanilla ice cream
Haughty hips
Pancake breasts
Stiff cigartip nipples
She a wraith
Skin and bones
Driven by
Desire of the wanton

"Where's your husband?"

"Dead," his aunt whispered in the voice of a forgotten movie star. "Does it matter?"

"No."

She takes his hand
Lead him upstairs
There are no lights
More and more shadows
They are both alive
Also both ghosts.

Inside a bedroom
He hands her the letter
She puts it on a table
Next to a bed
Sheets smelling of dead flowers and her of the grave
Earthy.

His aunt parts her gown
His hand pressed against on
Wet
Her gash
Fevered
Unlike her skin

She lies back
Sighs
Legs apart
He
Enters
Her
She take him
Lost
Lost
Lost
Thrust into his aunt
His mother's sister.

Again
Again
Again

No words
Grunts and groans
Finish with a gasp

Again
Again
Again

Her bones creak with need

More
More
More

Small people bring food
Wine
Water
They wordlessly worship her
The young man only fucks her

More
More
More

He sleeps
She never does
His body surrendered to hers

Day
Night
Day Night
Fucking
Naked
Always
His skin
Raw
Tattered by her nails
There is no nos.
She a demon
He a willing victim
Lust savage godless lust

Elyssas
His mistress,

On the third midnight
He wakes to chanting
Then a scream
Firelight in the window
Red flames flickers through the cracked walls He crosses the room.

Outside
Elyssas
Naked
Dancing around a blaze
With the dwarves
Naked With her husband.
Naked
Not dead
Not alive
Like Elyssas.

There is no flight
No desire to run
He is one of them
Them
All of the same wicked blood.

His grandother's letter untouched on the floor.

Later
Elyssas lifts her head
Semen dripping from her lips.
A knife gleams in the candlelight
The blade traces runes on his skin
She wants him to cry
To feel his pain
To bury him under surrender
The blade cuts deep

He does not cry
He does not surrender
He is his
No longer of she

A right to her head
Elyssas topples from the bed
Knife on the floor
He grabs his clothes and the letter.
He does not run
Not from her.

From the house
Across the tortured garden
Past the fire
The dwarves
His uncle
To the pick-up

Naked

The F 150 starts
His foot revs V6
His eyes on the second floor
Elyssas at the window
With with her husband
Wraiths
His blood

The dwarves grab at tge door.
Drive
The wheels thump over small bodies
He'll have to wash the pick up later.

At Route 17
The young man opens the letter
One word
Shaky script
'Family'

Over his shoulder.
Only darkness
No one in the rearview mirror.
Only darkness.
His foot stamps on the gas.
Away from the Height of Land And Elyssas
And family
No one waits at his destination
New York
And that's a good thing
Sometimes.
Having no one is a good thing.