Drawing Mannequin Mischief in monochrome. Subtle sidekick, sleek home of souls. Cold conjuror, no-face freedom. No life out of reach. The Pasta Hour Late walk, home again. Dark sky above, weak legs beneath. Fifteen-minute era of Waiting, Watching, and Stirring . . . To be rewarded with chewy-salty Victory, butter-cheese-fork Relief, calorie-laden Defiance, primal-unconditional Devotion. The Fire I come not from one house, but three. House Number One was festive, dependable, full of sweet dreams and hypotheticals that I shrugged off. House Number Two was empty, frigid and aloof, stripped to its skeleton, and infected with smoke. House Number Three was recuperating in the balm of springtime and accepting, sheepishly, the cardboard boxes that held its Number One face. …
“The Boggart” and other Poems by Julia Franklin
The Boggart There used to be this boggart in our house. Not a big thing, really; actually quite small. Of course, we didn’t used to see her that way; There was a time when we were the ones that were small. She had a row of teeth for every bit of flesh we bore. She’d bring them out, all neat and sharp and small. One day we stared her down and brought our own teeth out, And the growl that stirred in her throat was small. The night passed without incident. When the sun rose, We found footprints out the door. We thought, “Now who’s small?” I heard she found another house to haunt, Its occupants each Bambi-eyed and small. ** The Truckers It’s a world that…