At Seven and a Half Charlwood Street
written by: Christian Ward
The elderly lady who lives there
once turned all her husbands into black cats —
they swirl around the basement flat
in an ouroboros of night, a constellation of sulphur opals.
Even when the sun is scratching at the windows
at the height of summer, the rooms are tar-dark.
Punishments for gambling, adultery, excessive debts,
gluttony. Did they miss their bodies as they shrunk
and contorted into their new form blocking out
all forms of light? Did their minds float away
like jellyfish? Questions, questions, questions.
I hurry past as the sky starts to rumble
like a revving corvette. The oak trees nearby
fearful of their fate.
Back home, I eek out a bark and watch my hands
and legs go on all fours, stiffening like a divining rod
hitting the jackpot. Feel a tail twang like a car radio
antenna, tuning into the mistakes of a past life,
some bet placed by a wayward god.
- At Seven and a Half Charlwood Street - February 16, 2025
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