In the hushed tones of childhood friends,
I heard tell of her, the white woman.
Passing under her bridge, they whispered
of spectral sightings and nocturnal screams.
Years later, all superstitions suspended,
belief dropped in the arrogance of age;
I see a smoky silhouette hovering above,
overlooking the grave spattered hill.
Her moon face orbits, cold and cratered;
her black-hole mouth gapes and inhales
every drop of warmth in the air surrounding.
The pull of her puckered lips, inescapable.
Her frosty gaze pierces right through me;
naked and invisible to her all at once.
She re-enacts her fi nal scene, bowing
as she plummets to the death she longs for.
Kirsty A. Niven is from Dundee, Scotland where she lives with her husband and cats. Her poetry has appeared in a number of places including Artificial Womb, The Dawntreader, Dundee Writes, Cicada Magazine and Laldy. You can find more of her work on: https://wutheringmites.wordpress.com/