We hold hands around a ten-foot-tall hourglass. My husband turns to me as sand shhhs through. “You are the hourglass,” he says.
That is when I wake.
Dank air.
Smell of pine.
I’m in a box…
this is my coffin.
The shhhing is dirt slipping through.
Strings are tied to my hands and feet.
If I’m buried, there must be a bell!
But I’m paralyzed and can’t pull strings!
Shhh, shhh, goes the earth.
Finally, my right hand moves.
The muffled bell rings.
I wait,
hope,
and pray.
But what if the nightwatchman is away?
Shhh, shhh.