Windward Review Vol 21 (2023): Myths and Hauntings

Bonnie Stump
an open grave
i. dimly lit lantern swinging on a rusted chain, a voice over the
phone speaking in a clipped tone, the shards of a mirror splintering into
knife-sharp edges, a rotting mossy-still heart beating once again, a toetag
shifting with every small movement
ii. clawing your way out with raw-red fingers, a panicky intake of
breath, your head clearing the mound of dirt, petals falling from your
mouth, chewing your way through the flowers laid on your chest, suffocation
has never tasted this lily-sweet, incoherent as you pass through
the valley of death, shadows cling to you like a second skin, gripping
your headstone to pull yourself out
iii. forevermore grief, faithless devotion to your dying god, a welcomed
return, it is nearing winter and your mother waits for you, it is
the night before the world’s end, a door swinging open, you are cradled
by your sister’s salt-tinged hands, there is rage lined in the outskirts of
your hometown, you will do this over and over again
iv. your ache for nothingness was stolen from you in the night,
the Northern wind blows in heavy, do you feel like an open wound? you
should. if you look out the kitchen window, you can see the grave from
here — god decrees that there is no rest for something as Dark as you, a
curse upon you and yours, time unravels — you are carried out in a casket
made from the tree that was struck by lightning last summer, your
father and brother lay you gently to rest
v. your mother brings the lantern out into the field, the rusty chain
creaks, the priest murmurs low over the phone, a quick conversation of
hollow words and short fuses of anger, you shattered the mirror four
months ago, avoiding your double-vision, something is haunting you,
as dawn steadily approaches, your heart – covered in pinecones, buried
beneath the tree that sheds evergreen needles – begins once more, your
eyes fluttering open and your feet shifting as you drag yourself upwards,
the toe-tag catching on the corners of your wooden box
vi. your mother carries you home. the open grave waits behind.
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