Benja Castor
—
Slow Night
There were three of them. The lakeshore
Was empty of life. I’d set up a line to dry
Clothes over a common fire pit. Happy
To be alone. Night fell and the cool air made
Bellies around the stars. The trees slept on their
Feet. They came walking in step around the
Shoulder of a stone cathedral, facing the water,
While I cooled a packaged broth. Hello,
They said. We didn’t expect to see you here.
Nor I you. But then stranger things. One of the
Men glanced upwards, breathed in a
Deflated corner of sky. The other two sat
Down on dead logs near the fire. Introductions
Made, they asked why I was out there, all by
Myself. I lied. I told them I was the myth
They’d only heard about. That I came out of the
Lake each evening to feed on wanderers,
Before slinking back, satiated, in the morning to
The mucid floor. They looked at my bowl of
Tasteless, steaming ramen. Slow night? one of
Them said. I nodded, forever. Slow night.
Benja Castor writes early, when the streets are empty and the terrors have subsided. He sometimes lives in Argentina, sometimes in the States. His poetry has been published in a few places, under a different name.
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