Ann E. Wallace
This Small Protection
She said she could feel a spirit
in the middle room,
that she felt someone
had died right there,
in the room
with the wide plank floors.
I wanted to strangle her.
I gave a thin laugh instead, muttered
well, it’s an old house.
He was not old,
and his life is not lore
to be whispered
in excitement.
He was born
and lived his full life
less than six months before
this woman’s tongue
wagging fascination turned
my stomach with stifled rage.
His is not a story
of intrigue for her friends,
This was his room,
right here. I can feel him,
not a story for this
stranger in his room, stirred
to gross excitement.
in the middle room,
that she felt someone
had died right there,
in the room
with the wide plank floors.
I wanted to strangle her.
I gave a thin laugh instead, muttered
well, it’s an old house.
He was not old,
and his life is not lore
to be whispered
in excitement.
He was born
and lived his full life
less than six months before
this woman’s tongue
wagging fascination turned
my stomach with stifled rage.
His is not a story
of intrigue for her friends,
This was his room,
right here. I can feel him,
not a story for this
stranger in his room, stirred
to gross excitement.
Biography
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Ann E. Wallace writes of motherhood, illness, loss, and the everyday realities of life in America. Her poetry collection Counting by Sevens is available from Main Street Rag, and her recent or forthcoming work is in journals such as Crack the Spine, Mom Egg Review, Wordgathering, Snapdragon, Riggwelter, and Rogue Agent. She lives in Jersey City, NJ and can be found online at AnnWallacePhD.com and on Twitter @annwlace409.
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