The
night Jona lost her mind,
a red
moon hung above her window
and
voices from the forest behind
called
out to her, singing songs
of
the dead.
It
all started when she had gone
to
Urmee’s house next door,
only
to find her blood paint
her
kitchen floor a whimsical red,
and
Urmee lying on the ground
with
a cold winter stare.
The
men with the badges
had
several versions of stories —
the
one where Urmee waited for her
lover’s
car to pull up the driveway
under
starless grey skies;
or
when she strolled with him
on
the other side of town —
along
sullied cafes and bars,
that
were open for the night.
His
hand wrapped around her waist
and
head buried in a trilby hat.
The
night Jona lost her mind,
she
woke up to the sound
of a
Vedette drive by,
and
her husband’s side of the bed
cold
and hollow, like a sleeping ghost.
Down
the wooden staircase, she tiptoed
and
found him sitting still by the fire,
his
hand holding a Polaroid of Urmee —
her
dark curls framing her moon-shaped face;
his
fingers slowly moved across it
like
she was really there and her eyes gazed,
deep
pools of sea, watching,
never
looking away.
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