Honey, the spirits are here with us tonight and they are deeply disappointed. [audience laughter] Momma, do you not own a mirror? Did you think you looked cute when you walked out of your house tonight? My brother, I’m so sorry for your loss. Losses.

My head. Let’s start with my hair, more specifically, follicle by follicle. Brown in color to match my eyes; curly like traps—I’m Black—see it now. My hair lies fluffy on my head, like a good wig for the wrong owner. Like something too precious for me to have.

We always try to pull out the stops in our birthday issues, and this year is no different. There’s no real theme this month—although regret and reparation loom large—but every single piece is out to squeeze your heart or slap you across the face.

Raised in the foothills of the Great Smoky Mountains, known for the uncanny woods one oughta avoid at night, I know fear. Growing up, fireside ghost stories (i.e., oral horror storytelling) felt too real. At church, I swore the shadows . . . lingered down corridors.

This poem was written in response to the LandBack movement and as part of the brainstorming process for my unpublished cli-fi novel The Everwhen.