The Haunting

Prosper Ìféányí

She needles the loamy part of the soil,
letting a wishbone grow underneath the
aquatic stars. It has happened; a spirit
from the mountains, red-cloaked, licks
her ribcages like xylophones. A familiar
throb calls her, like the vintage symphony
of a stellar song—say a folk song, laced
in prayer like Dylan’s. The ricocheting
spade which digs her a grave, is lodged
in the ankle of a honey-skirted hive. Her
father warned her about love; now she
has given her heart to a filled hand. And
now, he drops it every once a while just
to stretch his hands. Now, the little finger
sticking out of the sepulchre like a twig,
is evidence enough to bring her down.
Every debris-dazzled desert plagues her,
her dreams; every mottled step carves her
a home in the concave breathe of night.

© Variant Literature Inc 2023