On Edgar Allan Poe's 'The Raven'

“And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted—nevermore!”

—Edgar Allan Poe, “The Raven”

I remember the chill.

Not the kind that comes

when a door is opened

in the dead of winter,

or when the wind finds

the gap beneath a window.

A different kind.

The kind that begins

somewhere behind the eyes

and travels slowly down the spine,

as if the body itself

has understood something

the mind has not.

I had read the raven's answer

again and again—

Nevermore.

By then I knew the word.

I knew what it meant.

I knew the man at the door

would never have the answer

he wanted.

But then came the shadow.

Floating on the floor.

And the soul beneath it,

knowing that whatever hope

had remained in that room

would not survive the night.

Nevermore.

I stopped.

I read it again.

And there it was—

that strange, impossible feeling

of being frightened

and delighted

at the same time.

I did not know

a poem could do that.

I did not know

words on a page

could reach out

and touch the body.

Could make the room colder.

Could make a voice

written long before I was born

sound as though it had been

whispering directly to me.

That was when I understood

that poetry could haunt you.

Not because a ghost

had entered the room,

but because a poem

could enter you.

Poe left his shadow

on the floor.

I carried it away.