Poems

Henry’s Night With the Hungry Hearth [Wreath] Henry’s little house was picked clean by winter, down to the last polite degree of warmth or grace,ice on the window like spiderweb scrawls, curtains heavy with breath that felt older than his face,and the wind outside kept shouldering the walls like a drunk trying to pick a […]

Hearthlight Confessions [Wreath]The first thing that hits is the quiet, that heavy sort of hush that settles after everybody finally runs out of things to argue about and heads off to bed,And you stand there in the doorway with your shoes still on, fingers thawing out, watching the fireplace throw copper-colored shadows across blankets and

Hefty Bags and Hollow Wishes [Wreath]By the time afternoon drags its slippers across the floor, the living room already looks like a gift wrap war zone that lost the plot halfway through the first volley of tape,Three bulging black trash bags lean against the wall like overfed dragons, bellies stuffed with cartoon Santas, shredded snowflakes,

Hangman’s Mistletoe [Wraith]They hung it as a joke, at least that’s what they swore when anyone bothered to ask who brought the cursed thing in from the cold,A sprig of mistletoe too lush for supermarket plastic, its berries glossy as fresh lies, its stems twisted like green rope grown old,It went up in the doorway

Hangover Dawn and Honest Light [Wreath]The year starts in a living room that looks like it tried to host a storm and only half survived the dare,Empty cups on every flat surface, confetti welded to the floor by dried soda, a stray heel under the coffee table that belongs to someone not currently here,A half-inflated

Hairline Halos And Superglue [Wreath]Every tree we’ve ever dragged into this living room has carried its own brand of drama, from the one that leaned like it was already drunk on pine-scented fatigue, to the one that shed needles like it had a grudge against carpeting,But the year the ornament fell, it felt personal, like

Halloween: Open House in Hell [Wraith]The night drops over the suburb like a mask pulled too low, cheap plastic moon hanging above the cul-de-sacs and trimmed hedges,Streetlights smudge their halos in early fog, every yard suddenly a stage dressed with foam tombstones and plastic bones that glow in the dark like someone’s guilty conscience dumped

Gunpowder Halo Over Dead-Man Hill [Wraith]They still call it Dead-Man Hill in that lazy, half-joking way small towns rename a place when tragedy refuses to shut up,a slope at the edge of the park where the grass grows patchy around scorched circles of last year’s rockets and cheap beer cans still half-crushed in the mud

Graveglass Lullaby [Wraith]The windows wake before the house does, skin of the night gone white and brittle, every pane wearing a mask of frost that looks delicate from across the room and sharp enough to fillet a pulse if you lean in too close,Outside, the streetlamp presses its tired glow against the glass like a

Green Teeth in the Garland [Wraith]There’s a corner of the house the bulbs never quite reach, where the old plaster sweats under winter and the outlets look tired and afraid,Someone dragged in a crate of holly and ivy from the big-box store lot, plastic twine cutting their gloves while fake carols leaked from the ceiling