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by Fred Chappell
Within a shadow dark as murmurs, wise
As midnight, Cousin Lilias slides, footfalls
Noiseless as spider's thought. Her amber eyes
Are slow and watchful, as if she hunts for prey.
She seems to move in time to a bell that tolls
Beyond the careful measures of night and day,
Her mind a prospect of indifferent skies.
No one talks with her. The family
Falls quiet when at last her velvet presence
Is noticed in the room. What did she see?
What does she know ? She is the palpable essence
Of something they cannot name, cool mystery
From otherwhere, black shirt and leotard.
She sets off with mascara-ebony
Those eyes that with a blink can go quartz-hand.
Finding herself detected, she sidles through
The doorway, depositing a silence within
The room that is not easily dispelled.
No one wants to be the first to say
A word; no one even coughs. Quelled
Like suspects being arraigned, they glumly scan
The carpet, as if seeking a hopeful clue.
Sooner shall pert scientists unravel
The riddle of existence than these shall know
Cousin Lilas's secret. Evil
And Good shall be as one; the Tower of Babel
Shall rise once more; Noah from Ararat
Set sail; volcanoes erupt vanilla snow. . .
For she is the puppet of her alter Ego,
That ominous brilliant schemer, Grimoire, her cat.
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