Your brother’s pewter cross / hangs from your neck; / its dim glow / in the bittersweet light /
casts a barrier between us. / In ‘Salem’s Lot they used / taped tongue depressors / to ward
against / ravenous dead. / It seems that fragile now / the way / I’m afraid / to touch you, / my
November flesh full / of longing, / for fear that you will wake, / turning me / to ash / and smoke
/ curling / from your lips. / I guess that would make me Susan, / but instead of floating at your
window, / I’m haunting your texts / and the side of your bed / closest to the door. / I resign
myself / to come alive / under blue eyes / like jagged ice / on the shore of Lake Superior / only
when the sun sinks like teeth / into the horizon.
Maddy Rane (she/her/hers) is a Midwesterner, an assistant editor for CHEAP POP, and a Scorpio. More of her poems can be found in The Mill Literary Magazine and The Aurora Journal. Find her on Twitter @maddyrane_..