So it took fifteen years but she finally got you;
crawled so slow from the well that no table-legs shook.
And the bells didn’t ring and the wine had receded –
had I pinned the wings sooner would there be something left?
We thought you were the hand and the world a bloodsucker;
we were popping it pink
like a liminal flinch. And the selfless thing is
my own selfishness’ echo – had I pinned the wings sooner
would there be something left?
It’s just me and my bottles,
and my vials of formaldehyde,
and the well-water dries into air that remains.
There’s a framed lock of hair that smells almost how you did
as the walls kick their feet
like empty-handed dinner guests.
Sonya Vatomsky is a Moscow-born, Seattle-raised ghost. They are the author of Salt is for Curing (Sator Press) & My Heart in Aspic (Porkbelly Press) and a poetry editor at Anthropoid. Find them by saying their name five times in front of a bathroom mirror or at sonyavatomsky.tumblr.com.
allison anne dabbles in all sorts of things, but spends an awful lot of time making mixed media art with the company of two fussy cats in minneapolis, minnesota. the products of such nonsense can be found at allisonanne.com & deardetective.com.