Poems

Fireworks Over Fences [Wraith]The fourth of July rolls in on a wave of humidity and gunpowder breath, dogs already losing their minds three blocks away,Kids chalk crooked flags on cracked sidewalks while parents grill frozen burgers over dollar-store charcoal, swatting smoke and decay,Someone down the block hangs bunting that sagged ten summers ago, red fading […]

Fireworks In Frozen Hands [Wreath]The sidewalk has given up pretending it is safe, glazed in a thin coat of stubborn winter that laughs at the idea of traction,Every step is a negotiation with gravity, car tires whisper past like cautious conspirators, their headlights sweeping over salt scars and lost confetti embedded in the cracks from

Exiled Baubles In The Dust-Bunny Kingdom [Wreath]Somewhere between the third tub of tangled lights and the argument about whether the crooked angel is “quirky” or “a cry for help,”The living room gave up pretending to be an adult space and turned into a holiday war zone where sanity got left on the shelf.Plastic bins exploded

Fireworks For The Forgotten [Wraith]By noon the sky already smells like lighter fluid and cooked meat, that strange summer incense of patriotism flavored with charcoal and cheap beer in plastic cups,Grills hiss in driveways, flags snap from porches that normally fly nothing except rent notices and pizza menus rolled up.Somebody on your block has been

Embers That Eavesdrop On Our Winter [Wreath] The fire had been there longer than the wallpaper, longer than the cracked old mantle with its crooked family photos, longer than the dent in the couch where three generations had sunk into the same tired cushion and sworn they would leave this town and never quite did,it

Evergreen and Ever Dead [Wraith]The wreath on the door is still hanging from last year, a ring of brittle green wired tight with wishful thinking and discount ribbon,One stray bulb winks like a drunk confession on the porch, twitching in the wind, refusing to admit that the season is over yet again,Your mother swears she

Eight Nights Below the Furnace [Wraith]Down in the red-lit cellar of creation where nothing cools and nothing quite stops hurting,They wheel in a crooked iron table stolen from some torture chamber clearance sale, chains still dangling like party streamers that remember better murders,Slap a menorah on the warped surface, hammered from blackened ribs and twisted

Elf Union Local 666 [Wraith]Down where the coal never earned a stocking and the fire never cools enough to pretend it’s cozy or kind, an assembly line rattles across the pit like a migraine of iron and grind,The ceiling’s a low bruise of rock sweating lava, chains looped down like rotten garland, hooks swaying lazy

Effervescent Regrets in a Borrowed Flute [Wreath]New Year’s Eve has that weird smell of perfume and kitchen disasters tangled in one long exhale,Grease clings to the ceiling fan while somebody’s expensive cologne clings to the doorway like it paid rent and refuses to bail,Glitter freckles the table, confetti sticks to sweaty necks, and the TV

Door Halo For The Damned [Wraith]O little ring of evergreen wired tight to rotting wood, smug as a saint in a thrift store frame,you hang on the front door like a seasonal apology, pretending you’re harmless, pretending you’re hope with a bow and some berries and a smug little smile no one drew but everyone