Day of the Dead by Jennifer Lagier




Drizzle whispers tales
of coming winter
over skeletal fields,
mummified corn.

All morning, my telephone 
repeats malicious rumors,
remaining weeks,
malignancy.

Dark hills merge with darker storms
I hope to evade.

Tonight restless ghosts will rise,
haunt our dreams
as we celebrate
All Hallow’s Eve.

I imagine the coming knife,
empty what was whole,
scrape pumpkin pulp,
cut away every seed.

Jennifer Lagier