Beyond the windblown Height of Land
Route 17 runs north to Quebec
A rutted road leads east
Neglected by county and state
Through bogs and swamps
To a town with no name on a map
The few inhabitants call it Dogtown

There are no dogs
Nor knowledge of dogs
The town is more a clearing with buildings
Worn weary by harsh long winters
Under the Height of Land.
The houses and shops and church bear witness
To the cold, snow, ice, sleet, slush, and blizzards

There is no global warming here
There is no summer.
This is the true North
Beyond is deeper North
With only one season
The season of preparing for winter.

The few towns people, young and old, shamble like the dead

They are not dead
They live
Unattached to the modern world

No cable TV
No cell phones
No Internet.
They are where the are

Dogtown by swamps

A battered F-150 creeps down the street
A young man behind the wheel
He parks before the church
He gets out of the pickup
A letter in his hand

A man rakes the church lawn

The young man lifts the letter
Written by a beloved grandmother
Recently passed
He reads the name on the envelope.
His aunt?s name
He saw her once Twenty years ago

At her brother’s funeral

Outside Portland
On Falmouth Foresides
On Portland harbor.

White blonde hair, translucent skin, bones visible,
Moving like a reincarnation
Her finger touched his face
A hand cold as ice.
Her blue eyes studying Portland
Like it had been hers

No smell of the sea
In Dogtown
Surrounded by swamps.

The young man says his aunt’s name
Elyssas Commons
The man points to a house
Across the road
A big house
Needing paint
long ago

The lawn a jungle

A Benz rusting on the axles
Its last ride
A long time ago.
The man returns to raking

The young man walks to the porch
Stairs creak each step
Dust lay untouched by wind or rain or sleet

No one has been here in a long time.
He knocks on the door.
Nothing
He calls her name.

Aunt Elyssas

Faint footsteps
The door opens
His aunt smiles at him
Her glossamer gown hangs off skeletal shoulders
Skin white as virgin vanilla ice cream
Haughty hips
Pancake breasts
Stiff nipples
She is a wraith.

Aunt Elyssas has not aged a day
She should be in her Forties
She has not aged a day

He steps inside
The house a mausoleum
Dust aged to powder

“Where’s your husband?”

“Dead,” his aunt whispered in the voice of a forgotten movie star. “Does it matter?”

“No.”

Aunt Elyssas takes his hand
Leads him upstairs
There are no lights
More and more shadows
Also unseen ghosts.

Inside a bedroom
He hands her the letter
She puts it on a table
Next to a bed
Sheets smelling of dead flowers and her
She parts her gown pressing his hand against her pelvis
Her gash
Warm
No hot
Unlike her cold skin

She lies back
Sighs
Legs apart
He
Enters
Her
She takes him.

Lost Lost Lost

Thrust into his aunt
His mother’s sister.
Again Again Again
No words
Grunts and groans
Finish with a gasp

Again Again Again

Her bones creak with need

More More More

Small people bring food Wine Water

They worship her

He only fucks her

More More More

He sleeps
Aunt e
Elyssas never does
His body is hers
Surrender
Day
Night
Day
Night
Fucking
Naked
Always
His skin
Raw
Tattered by her nails

He can’t say no
She is a demon
Raping a willing victim
To her lust

Aunt Elyssas

On the third midnight

Distant thunder
Chanting
Then a scream
Firelight in the window
Red flames flicker through the cracked walls
He crosses the room.

Outside
Aunt Elyssas
Dancing around a blaze
With the townspeople
With the short people
With her husband.
All naked
Not dead
Not alive
Same as Aunt Elyssas.

Immortal all of them.

There is no flight
No desire to run
He is not one of them
He is them
All the same blood.

His grandmother?s letter untouched on the table.

Later Elyssas lifts her head
Semen dripping from her lips.
He is her slave
Willing slave.
She wants him to cry
To feel pain
To surrender

He does not cry
He does not surrender
One blow
A right to the head
Aunt Elyssas topples from the bed
He gathers his clothes and the letter.
He does not run
Not from her or them.

The F 150 starts
His foot revs V6
His eyes on the second floor
Aunt Elyssas stands with her husband
Wraiths
His blood

The short people grab at the door.

Drive man drive

Wheels thump over small bodies.

At Route 17
He opens the letter
One world
Shaky script
‘Family’

He looks over his shoulder.
Only darkness
His foot stamps on the gas.
Away from the Height of Land And Aunt Elyssas
And family
He has no one at his destination
New York
And that’s a good thing
Sometimes.
Like now.