Advertisement
This one is a ghost poem whose subject was only ever alive on film: Johnny Ryan, played stone cold and queer to the bone by Wendell Corey in the deliriously Technicolor noir Desert Fury (1947). He haunts the end of the film and kept on haunting me past it.
The hardest person to be honest with is yourself, and acknowledging the gap between fictions you’ve convinced yourself are true and actual reality is a heartbreak holocaust. But honesty is always the best path to walk, even if it cuts like broken glass beneath your feet.
The rituals of witchcraft are intended to control outcomes. Being able to fly is often perceived as freedom, but it also threatens a loss of self-control. I wanted to write about the moment when dream becomes nightmare and explore how a ritually minded person endeavors to make sense of it.
We hear you laughing as you speed by on the interstate. In spite of what you might think of us, we are a proud town. We don’t need your understanding. We don’t explain. You couldn’t handle the answers.
Mark 5:1-20 tells the story of a man who lived among the tombs of the dead. This strange figure wandered through the hills and burial caves of Gerasa day and night, screaming ceaselessly and cutting himself with stones. The man, we are told, “had an evil spirit in him.”
This is a retelling of a Chinese folktale that I couldn’t get out of my head. It’s been through a lot of revisions. The two things that helped it come into its final form were cutting half the word count, and finding a voice for the main character that suggests that the horror is not only in what is happening, but those who might be complicit in the act.
Kayla watched the hot, empty cake pan smoke on the kitchen counter. It was her husband Henry’s birthday, and she’d planned a little surprise for him. A party, just the two of them, the way he liked it—no one to take any of her attention away from him.
Weirdly, I really did pretend juice from fruit canned by my mom was spoonfuls of delicious cough syrup, and one day in elementary school, I really did earn a punch in the arm from choking and coughing juice all over my friends in the cafeteria. From that seed, I branched off over many revisions of this poem to include my fears.
Advertisement
Advertisement
Advertisement
Advertisement
Advertisement
Advertisement
Advertisement