Mask: Volume I

This is the first of a three volume Halloween Issue and includes poems from guest contributors as well as Part-Time Poet regulars. Light some candles, grab some Reese pumpkins, channel your witchy vibes, and soak in these masked and unmasked words.

Masquerade

She curses her hands, hides her face
from sight against a tapestried wall
and knows what it means to haunt a place.

The crowds part as the masters of grace
ascend to their thrones—the lords of the ball.
She curses her hands, hides her face.

The resplendent chosen veil the space
with warmth and beauty. She envies their thrall
and knows what it means to haunt a place.

Once she fostered aspirations—whispered a trace
of wistful magic, ignorant of  the coming fall.
She curses her hands, hides her face,

bemoans these witnesses to her disgrace.
Into the hazy shadows she sinks, so small,
and knows what it means to haunt a place.

Her dreams evaporate without a trace
while despair consumes her, body and all.
She curses her hands, hides her face
and knows what it means to haunt a place.

Lori Luhrman

For Want Of Cover

Give me a smile to wear 
when my jaw is frozen,
and my lips refuse to lift.

Give me a gentle voice
when my tongue holds fire 
and my muscles turn to knots.

Give me a veil to conceal 
the angst in my spirit—
resentment, impatience, mistrust.

Give me a mask made of mirrors—
a reprieve from feeling, reflecting 
the emotions I witness, the pain I see.

Better yet, teach me a new way 
to be in this world—to live
unhindered, light, free.

Ashley L Case

Unwanted Bedmates

Light lessens, lessens, leaves
ink black night in its wake. 
Clock clicks to 3:00 A.M.

Creatures crawl
(escape the weight
of my white duvet)
across my skull
and call like crows
to gremlins who growl.

They claw at my REM
and mingle with monsters 
and worries. 

Now a kaleidoscope 
of concerns comes crashing --
shapes shifting, colors colliding --
bouncing, bewildering,
trying to break free.

Did I schedule that doctor appointment?
Will the anniversary gift come in time?
Did I wash my daughter’s shirt for “Blue” day?
Will the pain in my back ever leave?
Did my friend misinterpret my text?
I need to call my brother.

My eyelids flutter,
I lift the silk eye mask,
make sense of the time. 

You are unwanted bedmates.

They slither, as though stuck in molasses,
slip under the door and whisper, 
“We’ll see you tomorrow, same place, same time.” 

Alyssa Silvester

Masks Are Not Required Here

I grab the broom to mask the crumbs
Sweep, wipe, mask. 

I grab mascara to mask the fatigue
Sweep, wipe, mask.

Do I like my mask?
Why do you ask? 

I grab a smile to mask frustrations; dirty socks, busy schedules, and baby cries. 
Should I conceal, disguise, or hide? 

Is mask a noun or a verb?
I choose a smile and unmask my worries.

Replace cries for giggles, busy schedules for reprise. 

I ask; do you like your mask?

Masks are not required here. 

Grace Thomas

Monica Geller with a dash of Hermione

All my life, I’ve been a magician, 
a conjurer! I carefully scour
faces, expressions, words: 
“Who do you need me to be?” 

Kapow! Magic! 
Sparkles! There she is! 
The woman you need—  
98 and ¾ percent guaranteed. 

No one wants Monica 
instead of Rachel. No one 
wants Hermione vibes. 

But what if the mask 


f
 a
  l
   l
    s 

     off 


and you realise
the prodigal brother 
has come home, but 

you’re still standing 
outside the party,
too angry to go inside? 

Rebecca Marie

Masked Woman

Unknown woman—tightened tourniquet
Unready and unsteady, the windlass slips. She collapses
into the blood of her old self, staining her gown
with red as bright as an emptied womb drips.

Woman rises—volto mask removed
Trembling and strong, babes clinging to her hips. They watch
her refuse to hide the stain, returning to the masquerade,
colombina, if she chooses, at her fingertips.

Natasha Mila

Adulting 

Most days I do not feel brave. 
Most days I wake up feeling as though 
making one more piece of peanut butter 
toast with the crusts cut off might finally 

break me, like wiping one more bottom 
and guiding one more pair of hands
under the faucet might finally be my limit. 
I try to explain this to my friends— 

What is that feeling, I say, where you put on
your adult self like a mask every morning, 
and underneath, your body still believes
it is six or ten or thirteen years old

on any given day? What is that feeling 
where your body goes on as though
its hands are still tied, a little bit zombie,
a little bit frozen with fear?  

I am not a bad mother. 
Making toast is not so difficult. Still, 
there is a knocking from the inside, 
and what is it to be an adult, really, 

but remembering the child underneath
the mask, putting the power back
in her hands as many times as it takes? 
Every morning I see my own mother looking

back at me in the mirror. Every night my own child 
traces the blue veins on the back of my hand, 
and inside, the child stitched just under my skin
says, Don’t forget that I’m still here.

Krista Drechsel