after the novel by Daphne du Maurier
Counter the clock: let its hands whir hot as a circular saw. The dead do return to stalk their
familiar hallsscent of crushed azalea, lipsticked cloth fished from a mackintosh pocket.
Fast and blue, I pour cyclonic, the kind of knowledge a husband would keep for himself:
pleasures of the flesh, peat-smoked whiskey's steady burn, and the certainty one will win
in the end. It is worth itbullet to the heart, spike-drilled hull, the sea cocks left open and
rushing. Remember: Rebecca did this, as I am doing, and put the lily to the vase's open mouth,
not the first to do it.