mason jars
i swipe my finger alongside the dust of the jar you’re contained in
and i start to question why you’re in here.
what life did you live when you were sentient?
how did you breathe through the same lungs i did?
did your throat tighten when you were trapped within here?
or are you just a shell of the person you once were?
and as i flick the dust off my pointer,
i can feel your hand ghost along mine
only separated by the boundaries of this earth
and the glass of this jar.
attics
moving on from anything is hard.
especially when you lose the one you love
but when their wartime portraits
or their bronze metals
are held within the attic they once cleaned begrudgingly
i think that cleaning isn’t too bad,
and when your voice meets my ears
warbly and spectral (reminds me of tin foil subconsciously)
and you explain everything behind every object my gaze falls on
i give your ghost a soft smile and only dust it off for you
gravesites
i only can pray for the souls that cross this trench
their white sheets matching my white dress that blows beneath the moonlight.
it’s a nameless grave, those who ghost here
and they haunt my legacy alone
but i can sense their gratitude
that i’m here.
a pretty girl to be in solace with
a treat to their war-ridden eyes post mortem
a sight for sore eyes
and their stares ghost over me and i for once don’t find myself creeped out
Winner: Lyndsay Metts
HOWLER LIT 