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.
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.
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.”
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.
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?
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.
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.
So many beautiful words and themes here! Loved this: "...the child stitched just under my skin
says, Don’t forget that I’m still here."
I love these poems so much! What a fun and haunting theme! I too am a Monica/Hermione. And I too feel like the adult mask is a facade and I could still be 13. Love!