Curse One: The Wraith

　　 by Cynthia Huntington

　　 You are a small shape of death crouched among leaves.

　　 The twist of your red mouth is the torque of poison.

　　 Tangle of leaves， spill of leaves， slow rot of leaves. . .

　　 Misery， ruin， iniquity. You are the scuffling thing in dry grass.

　　 Rodent， snail， the curly-legged spider， centipede， rat snake.

　　 I see you by the back-hooded barbecue in November， brooding

　　 like the smoke of burned meat. The fire in the coals gone out，

　　 the sun hung low and weak in smoldering sky， cold

　　 breath of winter. You are all smoke breath， grief， and conniving.

　　 You are the alien thing invading my garden， a haunt， a plague，

　　 lurking beyond light and warmth， there in the shadows wearing

　　 death inside out， a curse on the sky. You are a spot， a flaw， a

　　 blotch and a stain on the world you corrupt and I hate

　　 you and fear you and look for you everywhere with dread.

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