Hadn’t the FLQ stashed bombs, kidnapped
cabinet ministers, left Laporte strangled
in a car trunk? Thieves dropped from the skylight, dodged
alarms and guards, robbed the musée where dad worked
of Rembrandt, Rubens, Corot? A drug addict
sliced our kitchen screen, climbed three flights, skipped
my siblings’ rooms but ransacked mine, filched
the coin collection cached in my doll’s bureau
painted with roses?… my nightmare… as if
watching from my bedroom window I see
it approach methodically, house by house,
snatch children, toss them into its hot vat
at the crown of Rosemount Avenue…
Why not believe in this bald goblin?
Pamela Hobart Carter loves Seattle as much for its water and mountains as for its bustle and creativity. She explores the Emerald City daily while walking her dog. Carter used to be a teacher who wrote on the side. Now she is a writer who teaches on the side.