On Visiting Poe's Grave - by DB Sullivan

On Visiting Poe's Grave - A Gothic Vignette by DB Sullivan

A soft, muted and mournful snow fell placidly upon the carved headstones and iron-gated crypts of the Burying Ground at Westminster Church, where the Countess Cynthia Ann and I had come to pay our solemn respects at the tomb of Mr. Edgar Allen Poe. The anniversary of the publication of “Ulalume” was approaching, and the Countess and I felt moved to take the occasion to sojourn to his resting place and offer our admirations and reverent remembrances of our dear friend Eddy, whose preponderance still reverberated through our hearts and minds with a resounding echo.

It was nearly half past ten on a bleak December morning by the time we had arrived in Baltimore by train, and made our way to the stately, brick-walled cemetery on West Fayette Street. Rolling pockets of mist and fog arising from the harbor slowly drifted through the deserted streets as we approached Old Westminster Hall. Stepping through the ornate, wrought iron arch at the entrance to the churchyard, we were engulfed with an overwhelming and bittersweet melancholy, where the profound despair of loss scintillates with a wistful, even intoxicating sense of nostalgia.

As we meandered slowly down the western pathway I ran my fingers over a few of the cold stone slabs and lent my appreciation to the names and dates which had been carefully and lovingly carved into their silent, dreary faces. Patriots, generals, benefactors, and families of high esteem were all interred here, the beloved children of Baltimore who had, in days of yore, gifted strategic victory or humanistic enlightenment to their community and the nation writ large. It was no mistake then, that upon turning left around the rear of the church, we were greeted by the most profoundly inspired monument of them all - that of Poe himself, flanked by the headstones of Virginia and Maria Clemm.

Although my breathing became nearly seized at the sight of Poe’s marble memorial, I rendered a delicate and heartfelt “Hello again Edgar” and in a low hushed voice, the Countess offered “We’ve missed you, old friend”. There we stood, at length as we marvelled at the passage of time, and the events that had unfolded in the years since Poe’s death. We mused with a friendly humor at whether the dastardly events of late would have spurned him towards a deeper madness, a more isolated melancholy, or more likely, both.

After we had fully satisfied our hearts with reminiscences of Poe’s legacy and the personal anecdotes with which we were entwined, we proceeded to accomplish that which was the purpose of our visitation. From the inside pocket of my black overcoat, I produced a bottle of Martell XO cognac and uncorked it. Raising the bottle up against the light wisps of falling snow, I said “We still haven’t forgotten you”. The Countess and I each took several swills from the bottle as we passed it back and forth, enjoying the warmth it provoked in the face and hands.

As a mild tipsiness enveloped her, the Countess let go of my arm and sauntered to a nearby mausoleum, where she reclined in the recess under an arched entryway and out of the falling snow. She quickly became absorbed in reading a copy of The Divine Comedy, which she had brought for entertainment during our travels. Her interests had recently been engulfed in the tales of deathly sojourns and extracorporeal experiences of grief and sorrow. This obsession was made all the more prescient on this day, with our commemoration of Ulalume. She was a voracious reader, a passionate devotee and a gifted practitioner of necromancy, divination and mediumship, and I was enamored by the depths of her dark passions.

The cognac was loosening my inhibitions as well, and I felt a strong surge of emotion welling up inside. As tears streamed down my cheeks, I blabbered out “You lucky bastard! The fever called living is conquered at last! And these dear friends are left to suffer the malady in your absence”. After a few moments of indulging my sorrow to outpour unabated, I composed myself and wiped away the tears that had temporarily blurred my vision. I tilted my head upwards to feel the snowflakes fall gently on my face, and the cold winter air caress my skin.

It was here that I happened to glance over to the Countess, where she reposed at the alcove of the crypt. Her back was against the leftward column and her knees were bent, with both feet on the opposite column, off the ground, with the book in her lap. I traced the line of her form, from her thick-soled, tall black boots and the gartered thigh high fishnet stockings that rose high onto her long slender legs. To my extreme delight, I noticed that she wore nothing under the highwaisted, ruffled black mini skirt she wore, and the ruby fullness of her lips showed clearly that she was intensely aroused and in need of gratification.

“My love”, I said with a mischievous grin, as I extended my hand to her, helping her to her feet and guiding her to climb atop an elevated burial slab which was situated nearby. She extended her lace covered arms behind her, planted her hands down into the snow and arched her back to the limits of her satin corset bustier. I slowly guided her lingerie clad, porcelain legs open to reveal her world of pleasure as my mouth reflexively began to salivate. A heavy blanket of lapping fog rolled through the cemetery as snowflakes delicately licked the silent headstones. Outside the brick wall that encircled the graveyard and in the empty street beyond, the Countesses’ rhythmic moaning crescendoed into an ecstatic climax of carnal release.

Gothic Poetry by DB Sullivan

Copyright ©2025 by D B Sullivan. All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.