By Meg Smith
A barn, draped in a garland of leaves,
beckons the step of Kerry reels.
Lanterns, carved in turnips,
banish the light of ungrateful ghosts.
Everyone breaks the barmbrack from the witch’s kitchen —
baked with the ring, the stone, the stick.
But I know my own fortunes, like apples
gathered in aprons, like the wild grass
of girls swinging their hair.
I do hold out, only my hand, to you.
From the veil of my face,
do I know, from breath to breath,
this side of bones, or the other,
I hold in your arms, a keeper of secret songs.
Meg Smith is a writer and journalist in Lowell, Mass. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in Bewildering Stories, The Horror Zine, Dark Dossier, Raven Cage, and many more. Her poetry books, Dear Deepest Ghost, This Scarlet Dancing, Night’s Island and Pretty Green Thorns, are available on Amazon.
She lives with her husband and their three cats, and welcomes visits to megsmithwriter.com.
Published 10/29/20
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