Summon Me Softly


I may not be an angel, or a Fate.

I drink my tea, and head to bed at midnight.

But this I state:


Though I have made my worried way to bed

Without you, and left the waking night to you:

Think this instead.


Trace a circle of chalk by any street

Or walkway; whisper the secret word;

Click the shoes on your feet;


Or hold your breath for ten impatient seconds;

Or plea to the moon: and, as if by magic,

To me it beckons.


Dash a note on paper, throw it down a well,

Flick a penny for luck, cross yourself twice

And see where it fell;


Stroke a likeness of me in your hand,

Do whatever you believe: turn round and cry,

And there I’ll stand.


I may not be an angel, or a Fate.

But say the word, or even wish it true,

And simply wait.


Stare in the mirror, and call my name three times.

I’ll be the shadow for you in the corner,

The wind through the chimes.


So keep in your pocket a pendant, or a lock of hair,

Your gris-gris bag or any forget-me-not,

And keep me there.


And heaven knows I’m flesh and bones: but call,

And I’ll dimension-shift through any door

Or concrete wall,


I’ll emerge in eldritch fire. I’ll manifest

In white-noise words, or the Ouija’s secret verse.

Put me to test.


Keep a candle for me. Dress it tenderly

In fragrant oils, and light it after dark.

The flame is me.



Dedicated to, and written especially and peculiarly for, a certain special someone. Incidentally the overall theme is inspired heavily by the séance -rock of Morrissey, and there’s a great ambiguity over whether the narrator here has simply gone to bed early, or has finally sprung from this mortal coil. The message still stands. 



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