A Dark Thought

A speculation on the power of the vial

In her hands – would it have occurred -

A dark thought brimming at the surface -

No – we'd like to think not – the smell of ether

And lavender – she found herself staring at it,

The cool glass on the pads of her fingers -

The devil climbed into her eyes -

Like a ghost rose out of her setee -

Mixing a few drops into the warm

Milk on the tray, “Mother?”

An echo in the dark of the house -

The ruffles of her dress

Following her like feathers -

Her could hands gripping the tray -

She could barely speak -

The fever hand’t broken for days

A pile of fallow, yellow flesh -

Daughter come to her side of the bed,

Dabbing the sweat on her brow with a rag,

“Here, drink this,”

The milk barely going down

Before mother batted her away

And fell back into an exhausted

Slumber.