Late, Late

by J. L. Hoy

Judging by the movie, it was after 1 AM

and the bedroom walls rang with questions.

The loyal tube was on, and on that night

it was The Mummy’s Wrath.

          I told you it was lunacy to enter here!

          Now we are all destroyed, Allah preserve us!

The hall was lit, the stairs and porch as well—

all made agreeable. One bedside light

lit up the Glock just at my elbow.

          It’s only the walls settling a bit, there hasn’t been

          fresh air down here for centuries, Really, Aziz . . .

Of course you see it coming, like it must,

that sinister conglomerate of dust,

and briefly they are innocent of it.

          My God! My gun Aziz! Be careful James!

          Six shots are fired. Effendi, it still comes

The native guide dies first, unarmed, underpaid,

and then the doctor fights it with his fists

          I’ll send this devil back—by God he’s strong!

          Take that! Run Sybil! Get out while you can!

Instead she opens up a crumbling scroll.

James is knocked out, and she makes out the words of death.

          The mummy stops, drops James.

          Their eyes meet, each afraid, woman and monster.

The creature disengages a small piece

Of cloth and pulls, unraveling itself.

Under its empty face is dust. It waits, it drifts

down to the floor. But even now

she looks afraid, so far from home, and lost,

and such a mess. She goes to James

          but then the car, the door,

the coat unzipped, a creaking on the stair

and me, still up and waiting for him there.