Oleander
A glance revealed her ghost,
her pale hand against the glass,
white as bone, sheer as summer clouds.
What round-heeled girl haunts this house
of weathered clapboard by the sea?
The grounds guarded by oleander
with green leaves like sharp and shady knives
and chaste blossoms blushing pink and red.
Not native, she planted her roots in sandy soil
and lived and died in a small, square room.
Nights spent waving, waving, calling to men
as they passed under her window like dogs
tracking the scent of lust and oleander.
Body’s worth measured out fifteen minutes at a time,
she toasted her luck with shots of silvery mercury.
The only cure for a life like hers.
When she tired at last, requiring rest,
did she turn to those lovely blooms, poison in every part?
A glance revealed her ghost,
against my reflection in the glass.
She stood there waving, calling, waiting.
To read more of Midnight Mosaic’s A Season of Strange, please visit our FEATURE PAGE and follow us to see our stories in your feed.
