They thought that we would go like sheep
bemused and walking in our sleep,
unmindful cattle herded deep
down into the nightmare:
the troll behind the closet door,
the serpent in the dresser drawer—
we walked the charcoal corridor,
inhaled the fetid air.
And still we spin our knotted thread
along the bench, beneath the bed,
some colored brown, some tinted red,
below the shadowed stair.
Our bones, like needles, weave the string:
flat plate of skull, sharp point of wing.
Our thready echo voices sing
Be silent. And beware.
Our scattered bones, dark future’s dice;
the woven banner’s strange device…
Where shadows dream of sacrifice,
unearth us, if you dare.