Not A Real Sestina for 609

But it was fun to write.

It was those errands to the basement

I hated, especially at night, when dark

makes daytime shapes into creatures. “Fetch a can

of tuna and a quart jar of pickles," Mama would

call, or “Go down and bring up some

pears.” Didn’t she know

what a scary chore it was? I did know.

Even in daylight, the basement

held the promise of something frightful, some-

thing to stay away from, the bad unknown that hangs around dark

places. Even in daylight I would

have to pull the light string or shine a flashlight on the cans,

and it was worse at night. Spider webs strung can

to shelf to box to ceiling, and there was no

telling how many dead bugs or mouse tracks would

litter the containers or whether a living basement

dweller, sinister and evil, might jump out of the dark-

ness to do my small girl self some

harm. Every nerve I owned was at its edge those nights. Some-

times even the sound of your own breathing can

scare you and you don’t dare let your voice be heard in the dark.

That could invite the boogie man. If I was quiet he might not know

I was down there in his basement

trying to pull the light off, get out quick, and lock the wood-

en door. Then, if only I could, I would

be back in the house without moving, find some

way to fly up the path, past the little room that holds the basement

generator, because at night the motor hum becomes a growl I can

only think is a monster waiting to grab me and do who knows

what awful dreadful deadly thing there in the dark.

My tiny flashlight does little to chase the dark,

but light from the kitchen spills onto the wood

slats of the porch, leads me, lets me know

the places, the shapes of the back yard. Some-

one’s voice from inside drifts out the window, and I can

turn the corner without fear, turn my back on the basement.

If I could build my own house I would keep canned

fruit and tuna, some other needed staples, no

doubt, in the basement but never go there after dark.