Stuart James Forrest was born in Omaha, Nebraska in 1951. He is a retired public servant living in Foster City, California. He writes poetry, short stories, screenplays and hopes to develop enough skill to be a strong, creative voice of my generation of Black Americans who lived through very tumultuous times in American history.
Sarah
How deep the sleep
when only billows of gray
on undulating, soundless, black tides
are dreamed?
Yet, her peace was disturbed,
then perturbed
by its touch; it’s wet caress,
slithering across the tops of toes,
then ankles.
How deep the sleep
that held eyes shut,
captive, rapt,
even as,
above palpable tactile splatter spatter
of falling rain on window sills,
a voice sighed at her ear?
She heard,
“Sarah, come out.
Come out
into
the rain.”
How deep the sleep
that held her
motionless
in tight bands
as it slithered
up, over, around,
deep between legs,
deep between hips,
between breasts,
touching lips,
even as
above palpable tactile splatter spatter
of falling rain on window sills,
a voice sighed at her ear?
She heard,
“Sarah, come out.
Come out
into
the rain.”
How deep the sleep
that forced fear to fight
frozen tight in bonds of terror’s coils
until she erupted,
free and quaking,
awaking
even as
above palpable tactile splatter spatter
of falling rain on window sills,
a voice sighed at her ear?
And she saw it.
She saw
its face, wet, dripping
rain, sweat,
grinning;
dark horror,
above her face,
in the night,
She heard,
“Sarah, come out.
Come out
into
the rain.”
How deep the sleep?
How deep the sleep?