Poems

The Anti-ThanksgivingThe table sprawled with offerings—golden-brown turkey, herbs glistening,mashed potatoes swimming in butter,green beans bright as accusations,cranberry sauce shimmering like rubiesin the chandelier’s amber glow. Rosemary and thyme on the platter,skin crisped to perfection,the smell intoxicating,warm bread still steaming,but no one felt delight. Aunt Mabel sat rigid,silver hair pulled back tight as her principles,and cleared […]

Sweetblood Midway [Wraith]The midway opens just after dusk, when the last smear of honest color drains off the sky and the bulbs flick on with that sick, buzzing halo that makes every shadow look like it’s waiting for its cue to move,And the first thing your eyes land on is the candied apple rack—twenty perfect

Teeth Wrapped in Paper [Wraith]Under the tree everything looks so damn innocent, tiny cardboard coffins lined up in formation like they’re posing for some cheerful execution photo,glossy paper sweating under the heat of fairy lights, curls of ribbon twisted tight as choke wires, each tag written in looping script that says “With Love” and means

Suitcase That Sleeps By The Door [Wreath]There is a suitcase stationed in the hallway, leaning against the wall like a bored guard who knows the shift will never end,Scuffed plastic, one cracked wheel, airport tags from three winters ago hanging on by threads that refuse to bend.You swore last New Year it would roll over

Sulfur on the Snowline [Wraith]The year had already come apart in slow motion, yet the town still dragged its plastic reindeer out of garages and stapled joy to the eaves in frantic little rows,Every roofline a nervous grin of lights flickering over mortgages and arguments, every inflatable snowman wheezing on the lawn while the real

Sugar Cracks in the Pavement [Wreath]Tonight the town looks edible from the bus stop bench, a whole main street frosted in white lights and cheap enchantment, shopfronts trimmed in fake snow and peppermint stripes that lean a little too far like drunk candy canes after closing time,and your boots hit the sidewalk with that wet

Striped Sugar and Mischief Mouths [Wreath]By eleven p.m. the tree has slumped into that tired tilt that happens once the kids crash and the adults start pretending they still have energy left for grownup fun,Wrapping paper drifts across the living room in crumpled drifts of cartoon snowmen and discount glitter, one slipper lost somewhere under

Stumps and Paper Promises [Wraith]Arbor Day shows up late to its own funeral, stumbling into a clearing that used to be cathedral-tall and breathing,Now just a bald patch of dirt and jagged stumps jutting out of the ground like gravestones that never got their names carved,Splintered trunks leaning at wrong angles, bark peeled back like

Street So Quiet It Feels Like God Moved Out [Wraith]Christmas morning drags itself over the roofs like a tired animal, gray light scraping its belly on antennas and leaking down fire escapes in a half-hearted crawl,Snow from last night lies stamped with the ghost of boots and tire treads, frozen mid-sentence where the city finally

Streetlight Saints of the Leftover Snow [Wreath]Streetlights hang over the block like tired saints in cheap gold halos, buzzing and humming above the frozen trash and tired brick,Pouring syrupy light across snowbanks that stopped being pretty three storms ago, all slush-striped and gravel-freckled, scarred and thick.Some kid’s lost mitten sticks out of the drift like