MARE

         *originally appeared in Noble / Gas Quarterly

When I was eight there was a nightmare that pulled like a hooded horse, eyes
capped & bucking. It was my mother who attempted to pry the image of dark
blood from my head, my father who clamped his mouth shut. The half-opened slat
blinds yellowed everything / I kept my eyes open      & open               & open / til
light. Twelve years later there is a nightmare with black birds. I wake / midday,
sweating on a couch. The horse kicks—

 

POEM FOR MY GRANDMOTHER AS DAGUERREOTYPE

I am afraid of my grandmother’s ghost.
She comes as cardinal, a crooked splotch
of red against January snow. My mother
watches from the window, cold sun
sparking off the glass. My grandmother
only stays for a moment, leaving a bright
trail in her wake.

She reappears later in the mirror where
my mother stands. I watch as the light
bends where she touches it, blotting
out the barrier between. I am afraid
when she is overtaken by light, of the
emptiness in the glass, as her voice
rings formless in the air around us.


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MARIEL FECHIK lives in Chicago, IL, where she works in a library. She sings in the band Fay Ray and is a music writer for Atwood Magazine and Third Coast Review. She is a Bettering American Poetry nominee and her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Hobart, Rust + Moth, Gravel, Noble / Gas Qrtly, and others. She tweets @marielfechik.