Mrs. Garland

I’m working on editing “Pigeon House”, which came in at just about 35 pages.  In the meantime I’ve started a new story that’s a big change of pace–much more introspective and grounded.

No other real announcements this week, so I’ve taken a stab at a ‘horror’ poem that also serves as a introduction to one of the characters in “Pigeon House.”


Mrs. Garland


When I found you, you were

but a little thing.  Sparrow of the woods,

picking berries too far from the safety of

your nest.


You bristled, hackles drawn,

when the autumn air turned heavy, hot.

And the lowering sun spilled blotted shapes

and shadows along that humid grove.


It stank of bog and rotten things that pick

and tap like moths at your window,

little vampires scratching

for leave to come inside.


But why do you fear?  For I shall love you

like I love all my children.

And when I bring you home at last,

you will ripen, and know the peace of moist softness.


I slouch

through lengthening shadows.

Your frozen eyes dancing

to the tips of many fingers


You never yell, though you could have.

My touch will change your life.

And all about me my children hum

and gather round to welcome you home.


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