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