Wait for Night

DAVE, 1848

 

A young boy kicks the wheel

and I’m throwing jar after jar,

not watching the whip come down.

But the sound—

What can we do?

 

The Master stomps

out of the turning house.

After his footsteps

fade on the hill,

I whisper, “Ann?”

She doesn’t answer.

I know she’s tied behind the wall.

“Wait for night,” I say.

“I’ll bring you a drink.”

 

Must have been

she tied a brick

to one end of that rope

and threw it over the rafters.

When I bring the water,

Ann is hanging limp,

and her pulse

is gone.