Photo by Darryl Willis

The Haunting

Moaning strings carried on
the voice of wind rustling down
Appalachian rocks. Somewhere
beyond the ridge your specter draws
a bow hard against my heart.
Haints are running wild tonight
and I’ve loaded my twelve-gauge with
double-aught shot. I’ve a garlic
clove stuffed in the bag about
my neck. I’ll be damned if I let
your mist of memory haunt me still.
But I’m afraid there’s no help;
now it looks as if I am.

First published in Vox Poetica | March 11, 2017