by Kathryn Merwin
If you had your way, we would speak
through the spirit board. I bury the planchette
under my pillow. Your frame floods
my periphery: below your hood, you have
no face. This is the body made of drone-strikes.
This is the winter one. This is the crying
jag. Your eyes are sunken catamarans. I feel your veins
twitch under skin: the screaming
subway trains, the palm-reader in Chinatown, her brown fingers
pushing through the holes
in my head. Careful of that one. Some things
shouldn’t be touched.
“The Dreams Lingering in the Mirror’s Deepest Shadow” by Bill Wolak