Residue

I.

Restless nights and early morning 
awakenings to a bedroom overrun 

by dark shadows, shapes
forming in the dim corners untouched

by traces of moonlight.
The heavy breathing, rhythmic

undulations in the silence,
are reassuring sounds of a life

lying serenely next to me. Welcome
relief from murky recollections

of bold, feverish strokes — claret,
a rabid redness pulsating

as it escapes, soaking layers
of mattress, past coils, rapidly

dripping, seeping into the oak
flooring underneath, where I,

cast as a little boy of ten, cower
in absolute terror.

II.

I remember the blade, shimmering silver
with a big, looped handle,

oversized for my ten-year-old
fingers that gripped the cold steel.

Stabbing only at blood-soaked linen,
feigning assistance in the transgression.

I don’t recall what happened
to the commanding executioner, nor

how I emerged unharmed, unscathed.
I only recall the anguish

in the face of a father’s ghost,
accorded a place in the dream,

sorrow at the death of a mother, while I
begged forgiveness for my helplessness,

my inability to prevent
the gruesome quietus.

III.

This was not a dream
fashioned from day residue

in that curious way that the mind
weaves such fancy tales

out of the previous day’s events.
But imagine my surprise

the following morning, as the news
anchor chronicled the incident

that led to a man’s conviction, his sentence
now facing the eleventh hour.

How similar to the images,
graphic depictions in my nightmarish sleep. Residue

perhaps, not of yesterday,
but another place in time.