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

A Swarm Unto Herself—Barlow Adams

I know a woman with a beehive for a head, big as the pyramids, a basket woven by slave hands, fit for a queen, too small for a princess, labyrinthine and honey-trap. She sits in a cemetery older than art, raw-rubbed limestone slick before the first mammoth graced a cavern wall.

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Two Poems—Jayd Green

All was amniotic & suspended in circus fluid – dancers and skaters all around your roundness. You were a bubble, a sponge, a dot. Your neighbour was a newt’s breakfast. 

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Two Poems—Gita Ralleigh

night is here & i am opening my door to her,
summoning her in, quelling lamp, quenching flame, 
scattering incense: black cardamom, pepper, clove, black salt. 

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GIFTS FOR THE CRONE—Jessica Dionne

The good and fearful people of the village adorn their doorsteps,
leaving gifts they hope will deter the old fury from stealing
their babes from their beds—nine pieces of silver and nine
goat tears, a slab of venison, golden-yolked eggs.

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The Fylde Coast—Kathy Finney

is full of ghosts –
              they roll in 
with white-washed bones 
of cuttlefish cluttering the beach 
              bodies knee-deep 
in surf

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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