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

salvation at sea—Abbie Howell

i stand in the same graveyard every morning and gargle saltwater / which bleeds
from my body overnight / i know i do not belong here / but eyes stare,
pleading, into mine from the ground / i feel my bones
and those / of my children, / embraced by dirt and worms and miles
of nothing /

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Two Poems—Zeline Theodoro

I could be the hero’s mother, sister, wife, best friend, / and it would end the same: bullet / through my brain, scarlet / spot small / enough not to tarnish the beauty / of the body / left dead for him to find.

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Harpy—Katharine Blair

The men are taking liberties again. Laying hands / and eyes and plans with no concern for consent and I’m tired / of blind eyes & kindness. Tired of carefully extracting their claws / from my hair. So tired I’ve begun growing a set of my own.

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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