I wake at five, the damp air kissing my cheeks, and my eyes slam open.
As I slither from my bed, I can hear distant screams. Mother.
I do not smile.
But I feel something I suppose could be happiness.
The grounds start appearing out of the mist,
lumps of sullen stone that had meaning once.
Bon matin, grand-mère. Do you sleep well?
Pourrir en morceaux, grand-père. Maybe one day we’ll find them all.
I am a spectre descending noiselessly down the stairs.
You would not hear me coming.
There is a shimmery delight to that knowledge;
I own you all, you basic peons asleep in your beds.
We do not rest on pretty, on phatic communion.
We do not bow, or bend, or erode.
We are Addams.
And this bleak morning is a glory to us.