House
of Dark Spells
Sandy
DeLuca
I.
Met Kayra in Mecca.
a friend at first…
a lover after too
many drinks.
Her place was small,
with three black
cats
resting on arm chairs…
purring when she
fed them fish.
Oddities hung from
hooks…
sketches of stone
temples,
faces of long-ago
lovers.
Sculls, pentagrams,
and black feathers
in copper bowls.
On an old wood stove,
something boiled
in a black pot.
Our trysts went on
for months.
She always left me
before dawn.
Helped at the marketplace…
sold fruit, nuts,
coffee.
Drowsy, drunk from
the night before…
I heard her door
close,
a sultry voice…
Now
I know you…
I’ll
follow you…
always.
The cats nestled
next to me…
I drifted to sleep,
dreaming my lover
floated away,
Taloned fingers moving
to
sounds of rushing
wind
and crumbling stone.
My mistake…
told her I loved
her,
She drew a pentagram
beneath the fireplace…
zodiac signs,
images of black birds
and bare trees.
We sat inside that
circle,
hands pressed together,
her head against
my chest,
red silk scarf around
her neck.
Memory is dim,
flashes of silver,
crimson stains on
my cloths.
felines huddled by
the window.
In the morning,
a village girl found...
eyes gone; throat
slashed…
that scarf by her
side.
I fled Kayra’s
house of dark spells…
drove for miles…
but she tracked me
down at a bar in Al Qatan,
came up behind me...
like a specter...
like a wisp of air...
told me if I left
her,
I’d never be
safe again.
A night later,
I rode a battered
taxi to the airport,
travelling down a
desert road,
as the moon sunk
in the sky…
creatures clawed
their way into the ground...
flesh and limbs
between rotting teeth.
eyes black and skin
so white.
The stench of
sulfur and rot.
The driver...
prayed in Arabic.
Looked to the horizon
as the sun slowly
rose.
When our journey
ended,
he turned, looked
me in the eye,
asked me if I met
Kayra.
I nodded…
You’ll
never be safe, dear girl.
II.
In my dream I sit
cross-legged on a floor,
my flesh painted,
stars and ghostly
faces.
A woman stands over
a stove—
ancient, stained
and scratched.
flames flicker over
her face…
Kayra.
The smell of burning
wood fills the dark room,
tiny skulls and animal
bones
hang from nails on
a wall.
She hums as she stirs.
and smoke billows
upward.
I run a finger over
my flesh,
trace a crescent
moon on my inner thigh.
and ash begins to
swirl--
filled with faces
of the dead.
Kayra wails…
They’re
all here now.
She falls to her
knees
as the pot explodes,
releasing angry flames,
cries out when I
slip a gun from my boot,
press it to her head
and whisper,
"Now it's the end."
She smiles through
crimson droplets
pouring from her
skull…
In the distance,
creatures claw their
way
through dirt…
eyes black and skin
so white.
© Sandy DeLuca 2024
