They must have seemed more precious than his life.

As I came close, I didn’t say a word

but took the cash I’d stolen from the guard

and held it out, “Take this and walk to town.”

He knew that money never comes for free.

He took it anyway and slipped outside.

I walked back to the kitchen quietly

and saw her busy working at the sink.

She must have heard me come into the room,

but wouldn’t turn to look me in the face.

And I came up behind her all at once.

Then it was over—over just like that.

I felt a sudden tremor of delight,

a happiness that went beyond my body

as if the walls around me had collapsed,

and a small dark room where I had been confined

had been amazingly transformed by light.

Radiant and invincible, I knew

I was the source of energy, and all

the jails and sheriffs could not hold me back.

I had stayed strong. Finally, I was free.

But as I stood there gloating, gradually

the darkness and the walls closed in again.

Sensing the power melting from my arms,

I realized the energy I felt

was just adrenaline—the phony high

that violence unleashes in your blood.

I saw her body lying on the floor

and knew that we would always be together.

All I could do was wait for the police.

I had come home, and there was no escape.

HAUNTED

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” he said. “Such nonsense.

But years ago I actually saw one.”

He seemed quite serious, and so I asked.

It happened almost forty years ago.

The world was different then—not just for ghosts—

slower, less frantic. You’re too young to know

life without cell phones, laptops, satellite.

You didn’t bring the world with you everywhere.

Out in the country, you were quite alone.

I was in love with Mara then, if love

is the right word for that particular

delusion. We were young. We thought we could

create a life made only of peak moments.

We laughed. We drank. We argued and made love.

Our battles were Homeric—not Homer’s heroes

but his gods, petty, arrogant Olympians

thundering in their egotistic rage.

Mara was brilliant, beautiful, refined.

She’d walk into a room dressed for the evening,

and I would lose a breath. She seemed to shine

as movie stars shine, made only of light.

And did I mention she was rich? And cruel?

Do you know what it’s like to be in love

with someone bad? Not simply bad for you,

but slightly evil? You have to decide

either to be the victim or accomplice.

I’m not the victim type. That’s what she liked.

I envied her sublime self-confidence.

She could freeze someone with a single sentence,

too witty to be rude but deeply wounding,

impossible to deflect or forget.

If I sound slightly bitter, please understand,