THE LONG NIGHT JOURNEY OUT OF THE FOREST

1.

It was easy going in, 
an assassin's hands
opened the bodies like lovers. 
Decked out in black, 
only the owls and night 
creatures saw me
descend the wet path
from the moor to the forest.
Night ego. As in dreams,
they were mine, but not mine,
that twisted the rope,
snapped it tight in a crack
of rainwater and lightning.
God, I felt so powerful
breaking and smashing the bones
with my fists. I was free,
a howl at the moon that echoed
to morning. A crescent
of blood still crusted
at each finger's tip
like an unopened eyelid.

2.

When they dug me up
I told them nothing, denied
I had been there, never seen
those boys in the photographs
nor heard their names whispered
along the bar, caught their breath
in my ear and promised them
paradise. I improvised, lied,
gave alibi after alibi 
for each night they described.
I rang true as a dented bell
then fessed up to stop
their questions and accusations.
I pled not guilty on account of 
my diminished responsibilities.
My father had hammered
the sense from me. They weren't mine,
but his, yanked the cable ties
tight round their wrists. I was mad
at the time, mad now. Crackers
on account of being given over
to the state in my youth.
Violence and survival were all I knew.

3.

I go to the forest each night
to watch the man hurt the other men
among the trees. Night sounds,
rainfall on leaf dropped to sludge,
the insects bickering over fungus.
He is no different to me,
but powerful, a horse-high, at least,
a barn door broad. He cooed
them like lovebirds to his forest,
his hide beneath the bracken,
a trap he'd primed with knives
and axes. But he loved most
to use his fists, manual work,
a thumb to bust an eyeball,
fingers to choke a scream.
I cannot escape their visits,
these fascinating ghosts that shiver
under his control excite me.
His muscle, his tower of flesh,
trembles in moonlight.

4.

The long night journey out of the forest begins
with an interlacing of hands, a kissing of palms,
a step away from the dead. We will walk until dawn
up to the moor, to the lay-by where we parked the van.
We will not look back at the forest, its secrets,
but keep eyes front. The engine will stutter to life
and drive towards sunrise. All things are waking
before us on the road, blinking and not looking back.