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

wombmagic—Vera Hadzic

You can find the school for wombmagic if you look hard enough—
buried in groves of white-skinned trees with red berries
door rattling behind a net of thorns
roof bending under a promiscuous wind

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To Craft a Coven—Shelly Jones

Draw the curtains before you begin, so cowans cannot look upon your divine magic. If you feel a shuddering at the door, wood shimmying as the wind whips, slip fennel in the keyhole: no demon will scry on your covenstead. 

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The House—Christel Thompson

I don’t remember when 
I first woke here anymore. 
Or perhaps it’s not that I don’t remember, 
but rather that I simply don’t know— 
when this started, where I am. 

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The Hike that Breeds Desire—Alba Sarria

This one opens in Green.
His feet are hooved, clovered in
dark curling
Fur.
There is a fragrance in the air you do not know,
or do not want to remember.
It stings the hair in your nose,
fires the nerves under your feet.

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LOVE IN THE SARGASSO—Sarah Zell

I.
When I was young, thin and bright as glass, I flew upon the ocean currents to find where the sweet water poured into the salt. I drank until my teeth ached and thought, this was good, this was what I wanted. 

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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