Throw down a little Salt

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I cannot imagine new tenants walking backwards up the stairs,
Throwing down a little salt because they read it in a book.
They must not check over their shoulders,
Nor hunch their shoulders up around their necks for protection.
Poor dark things, menacing an empty room,
I worry for you.
Who feeds you now?
Do you skitter amid the boxes, looking for me and my vivid imagination?
Do you still dance as I imagined?
Not that I could bear to witness.
I could not stand the darkness.
Perhaps now…but would you want me now, full of worldly fears?
Or would I taste too leathery, to tough even for your needle teeth?
Check on them, if you would.
Under the stairs, behind the boxes of forgotten books, or in shadows of the old art projects.
Throw down a little salt.
For my lonely living shadows.

Tiny Sympathy

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Tiny Sympathy

He needs a nightlight,
Yet he’s the one asking if I’m alright.
Just wanted to check, he explains,
In a voice small enough to disappear in the three feet
Between my small bed and his small frame.
You were making sounds in your sleep.
You sounded scared. I wanted to check.
I’m alright, I say from somewhere between consciousnesses.
Do you need me to come tuck you in again?
An impossibly small shift in the shadows.
A nod in assent.
Symbiosis.
We protect each other from monsters.