My tormentors

My Tormentors
By Laura McHale Holland

They lurk in the spaces between words, in the pause before the stoplight changes from yellow to red. Always the same burgundy hue, they shift shapes, stand on the roof, slip into the junk drawer, crawl across palm fronds lining the sidewalk. They fly overhead today, pterodactylesque, their huge wings beating in counterpoint to my heart. I run, run, but they gain, sweep down, scratch my shoulders, arms, face. My toes turn into claws, my arms into baleful burgundy wings. Up, up, I go now chasing to the clouds my tormentors.