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  Morgan Lafay lives near Richmond, Virginia. Her poems have previously appeared in Loch Raven Review. Morgan's writing is influenced by family, past memories, stories passed down, friends, neighbors, strangers, and spontaneous instances. But mostly, simple, self-gratification.  

Fall 2007

Table of Contents - Vol. III, No. 3

Poetry    Translations    Interview    Essays    Fiction    Book Notes & Reviews


Morgan Lafay


Window Pain

The sun came through the thin curtains and woke me in time for school. On a starry or moonlit night I thought I could count all the stars; even the ones hiding behind the moon. Sure of it, I'd then fall into blissful sleep.

Thunder would call the valley where we lived its own and throw lighting spears to prove it. My favorite was the rain bouncing against our tin roof, patterning differently shaped blops of rain or thick rivulets on the glass. I would watch until sleepy lids closed the view.

Happiness was abundant through my window; a time of childish joy and innocence that glistened as clearly as the silver fox against the snow in winter. Bright as the Black-Eyed Susans lining the fence where the horses watered. A kaleidoscope of spring, summer and winter pretties. Mine, I saw them first, out my window.

A starless night, another easy rain tapping on the tin roof. No spears of lightning, but a clap-like noise awakened me. Moving the curtains back I saw him. Slapping mama’s face front-hand, back-hand. Spinning her around, he pummeled his fists into her back and shoulders. My mouth opened to scream, but only a dry gurgle fell out. Petrified; horrified, this was the first misery I had ever witnessed out my window,. In his drunkenness, he did not see me; but mama did. Her eyes pleaded to close the curtains. Look away. Be quiet. I did.

The next morning Father got his eggs, bacon, biscuits and gravy as always. Happy and talkative he was to my brothers and me. Mama moved slowly about the kitchen. I'd always thought she was bone tired when she moved like that.

Oh window pain
I still can hear
slaps of thunder


Night Dancing

There were many times when I would tiptoe out of our old house set upon a hill, screen door unlatched except for a rusty hook. Our small house so crowded, three to a bed, it was good to get some stretching room. I only went out on a starlit night or high moon hanging.

If the owls and doves weren't hooing or cooing, I would wake the chickens for company. Bad idea; the old man thought a fox was in the henhouse, coming out with his scatter gun to protect future suppers. He didn’t see me and he didn’t see a fox. Called the chickens “daft bitches; should shoot one of you for waking me up." I held my breath until the screen door closed, then lay on the storm cellar top taking in the stars: who was up there?

I was young and knew the stars held either angels or twinkling faerie fays, both of kind nature. I did a “take me with you dance” twirling around softly, palms up, eyes to the sky, white prairie nightie offered as my purity. I don't think angels saw me, no faerie fays; only chickens, owls, and doves. I still danced.

prairie nightie, white
young girl spins
magical dreams of night


Morgan Lafay

Poetry    Translations    Interview    Essays    Fiction    Book Notes & Reviews


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