'Sunday Night Monsters': A Poem by Fabrice Poussin


Dreams of a ten-year-old to fearful nightmare,

waiting patiently for the forsaken hour

when the child should have been cozy,

in the arms of the gentle goddess.

Forgetful of the next dawn to a new week,

he sits while another slumbers for a moment;

no vivid colors for the masterpieces of old,

just dreary black on a background pale as death.

Boris in his oversized boots, Bella of great canines,

surrounded by hate, while the noble villagers

chased with fire, sun and silver bullets,

to see a mill crumble, a body fall to ash.

The anticipation of the next film, faithful,

ending a day of rest, sweets, fun and games,

on the edge of his seat he festered the terror,

which certainly would come in the dark.

So young like many, a little heart racing,

he longed for the false emotion of his friends,

every Sunday into the wee hours,

by the fireplace, he devoured the falsity of horror.


Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and dozens of other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.

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