The Devil

        
                      "Of course we must believe in Hell --
            "But we don't have to believe anyone really goes there."

        
        Two ruts of gravel, a tall strip of weeds between,
             high grass on either side,
        Ended in a mix of mud, boards, and grass
             where rust sculpture memorials to bygone machines 
             clustered in the frozen shock of death.
        Lawnmowers, tractor parts, twisted bicycles scattered
             amidst the crippled cars, sat stunned, silent.
        
        
        On the top of a small rise, the house crouched.
        Its porch slipped, like an apron 
             hung low on the hips of the foundation.
        The floorboards were curved, burdened 
             by an invisible weight.
        Her rocking chair was cradled in the sway,
             leaving little room for it to move.
        It creaked quietly in its confines, muttering,
             while she murmured softly, maybe talking to the chair.
        Speaking of old things that only they remembered.


        She was only lucid once, when I was visiting.
        It was toward the end.  I was doing a favor, 
             putting a fresh glass of water beside her chair.
        She looked up and for a moment, her eyes cleared.
        "The Devil comes for every body, child.  Ain't no body safe."
        I stood up, unsure, and took half a step back.
        I was abruptly invisible to her, but she continued speaking,
             admonishing the chair, perhaps.
        "The good ones, they got angels fightin' for 'em,
             To take 'em up."  I scrubbed a sweaty palm on my shorts,
             unsure of what to do.  Everyone was inside.
        "Some's got witches to protect 'em,
             til they make it on high.  The rest no body worries about." 
        She crossed herself and nodded wisely.
        "Them the demons claim and drag screaming down 
             each to his own hell."
        She chuckled to herself and shook her head,
             negating a protesting squeak from the chair.
        "Oh, the devil's real all right.  Real as pain,
             hard as packed dirt.
             So long as you believe in 'im, 
             he can hurt you as much as you think."
        Reality slid from her again, and she stopped speaking clearly.  
        Her mumbling blended with the chair's squeak and 
             the noise of the boards beneath my feet as I walked away.

                                        Kelly J. Cooper
                                        5/4/92
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