The supremely spooky & surreal “weather” is one of 3 marvelous poems by William Lessard in our Spring 2016 issue.
{ X }
THE NIGHT THAT BECAME
night. We open the door
in the middle of our bed.
The door is candy corn tear.
The door is blue giant
ear. You go first. I follow.
The map says call ghosts.
You call with the side
of your hand. No ghosts.
You call. Not a ripple
in the curtain dark. I say
call with a different voice.
You cup your hand, call
as the girl that stands
behind your eyes. The girl
is ripped dress tacked
to a post. The girl is
blood wiped from the tip
of his favorite tie. I know
this girl. She thinks she’s
hiding, but I catch her.
I’ve seen her often peering
out, sometimes with eyes bolted
to the jewels of foreign fingers.
Her voice is your lace curtain
voice, speaking in gasoline flame.
All the ghosts know her. All the ghosts
know you. They appear as smoke
blown beneath a door. This is how
the night begins. Your voice, this tree.
{ X }
WILLIAM LESSARD has writing that has appeared or is forthcoming in McSweeney’s, NPR, Prelude, Wired, Thought Catalog, People Holding, Drunk Monkeys, Voicemail Poems, Metatron, Moloko House. He has a chapbook forthcoming from Reality Beach this spring. He co-curates the Cool as F*** series at Pete’s Candy Store in Brooklyn.
