by Siddiq Islam
No, officer, I can’t relate
Their stature or their height or weight
Or sex or skin or what they wore
Or what they used to break the door,
But they must have found it satisfying
To watch their rod or crowbar prying
Into refuge from the winter,
To watch the midnight door frame splinter.
Through the halls and to my chamber,
Ignoring paintings on the wall,
They crept towards me in my slumber,
Dead in dream and lost to all.
They left my jewellery on the shelf
And took no money for themself.
No, this disinterested ghost
Just sauntered up to my bedpost,
And, seeking not my bronze or gold,
Reached down, breath held, hand rigid cold,
Ripped out my face right through my skin,
Slapped it over their own wry grin,
Then fled delighted, feeling cunning.
It taints my name, this entity,
Free now to sin, about town running
Wild with my identity.