Poetry

—6660.222 Ghosts that haunt all the secondhand curiosities in antique stores and thrift shops: musty ghosts in the vintage dresses, moth-ghosts in the tailcoats, ghosts that haunt the cracked teacups,
the worn-soled boots, the rusted skeleton keys

JESSIE LYNN MCMAINS,
RUST BELT JESSIE’S TAXONOMY OF GHOSTS

Two Poems—Amy Wolstenholme

First, when I am a blue-veined old woman with a raven / tame on my shoulder, I will call myself Calleich, goddess of winter. / I will call on the storms, laugh at pedestrians scowling, wonder / why women still hide beneath colour

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Two Poems—Brittney Corrigan

The fish lizard rises through a cliff bed / as her linen pouch of stone bones clatters: / devil’s fingers, snake-stones, verteberries / clack their fossil bodies, shift and slide.

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Ditches—Kelli Lage

ditches so deep / they serve as graves / pavement laid / proudly by your father / or perhaps grandfather / now tarnished by the glass / that cracks like ice

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Witches stuff moss into my cheeks, flush to the bone. In the slanted light you can/ imagine their death, but they are/ dying again when you run over a railway bridge with a Chinese lantern, dying again as a barn owl flies over a roundabout, silent arch over glowing tarmac.

SOPHIE DICKINSON, BROOK