it makes me sweat even now

such sheer terror left its mark

there's nothing worse than a

child imprisoned in the dark

 

she'd blame me for being bad

I'd struggle but to little avail,

hoisted in the black cupboard

dusty, warm, beyond the pale

 

bent in two and scared of mice

heard her laughter downstairs

something tickling my shoulder

the silk touch of spider's hairs

 

seemed like years in my prison

all too easy to lose track of time

released only when she deemed

me shriven of my litany of crime

 

a life-time later and she's dead

the pillow she could not resist

house and cupboard mine, its

trauma from a childhood mist

 

the black cupboard lies empty

locked relic of ancient clashes

but for one guest, an open urn

on a spider-spun web of ashes.