Mother

You always called me

your little tsouris

I thought it was a term of endearment
Like a lost word,

[it comes] back unbidden *

with your memory

You said you knew

the dark spirits would follow me

because my name was uttered

in your eighth month
 You tried

to love me but

when you looked at me,

you saw the dybbuk

and recoiled

You accused me 

of trying to turn you into a ghost

when I named my doll after you

I didn't know

I was only ten

On your grave today

I placed a stone

I'm still trying, Mother.

* For Ella's prompt, we were instructed to include a line from a ghost poem. I chose "Unbidden" by Rae Armantrout

Poet's Notes: I've made mention of several Jewish words superstitions in this poem:

• tsouris = heartbreak, worry
• uttering baby's name during pregnancy will alert evil spirits
• dybbuk = an evil spirit that possesses the living
• naming a baby after someone still alive is akin to wishing them dead
• instead of flowers, Jews place a stone when visiting a grave

submitted for Magpie Tales, Mag 242
and Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Play It Again, Toads #10, Hallows Edge

The Poetry of a Knife

source

The glint cut

right to left and back

Again and again, flashing

like the silvery zig zag of minnows

underfoot in the ocean,

too quick to follow yet

too mesmerizing to look away

This is what she remembered:

Not pain

for that didn't come until after

but a strange admiration

for the man's deft precision

An artist touching the canvas of her face

with a brush stroke here, there

Filling in lines and shadows

that render a portrait recognizable

And yet

When she reached up to touch,

 nose, cheeks, mouth,

they were unfamiliar and

her hands, when she looked,

were covered in blood

like red paint, sticky and crimson.

submitted (late and w/apologies) for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Vignette