MaENaD
literary journal
Lady of the Night Wind
By Eugenia Shapiro
Alone, she traces the patterns on the balcony rail
A pale hand in the black night, swirling
The wind between her fingers, black curls
Spread about the balcony floor, aching
Knuckles tap against those designs, whose
Creations were these? It was not her own
She was not her own.
She was a piece of furniture, her grandmother's
Old books scattered in the study, rustling
She fixed her skirt over her legs, useless
Attempts at figuring out her place, in this house
There are no others, only wind
Kept the duchess company, which
Duchess? She thought she heard a voice.
Not her own. Never her own.
She was nothing here, a shadow
Crept about the balcony, Lenora
Lay on the balcony floor, swirling
The wind between her fingers, feeling
Nothing at all.
Eugenia Shapiro is a writer and academic with a special interest in stories about ghosts, collective memory, censorship, propaganda, and sad women who should be allowed to light people on fire. She plans to pursue a doctorate in comparative literature and is occupying herself in the meantime by working on any one of her many, many unfinished novels.