The Nightmare by Joyce Carol Oates

She wakes from the pillow
body hammering to the hovering
above her
the withheld beating of wings

don't move

it is a whisper
she can't quite hear
she goes rigid with its certainty
a child's fatal sense
of proportion
don't move

a careless move will unhinge
the universe

in a network of nerves like wires
she lies rigid waiting
for the presence to withdraw
for the withdrawal of the vibrating
of dim sacred words passing
the noise of terror passing
the amorous wings fading
to daylight