Personal Body Horror 

by Meg Frances

I have burnt the recommended herbs 
I have faced North, counted sheep, bathed in salt 
I have ignored them, the spirits, and all their bodiless energy 
but it’s that shit you can’t turn off or away from 

Pull comforter to jawline, slack as death 
turning deeper, I become bedsheet chrysalis 
a moon is fuller tonight, throwing silver knives 
through each leering eye of a long window 
turn away from it, breathe carbon onto shadows 
phantoms goose skin through thin pillowcases 
clutch the gift of saged quartz to breast as babe 
the clear crystal as weapon, as salve, as plea 
all the sinners of lazy Sunday sermons dance through me 

What brings it on and keeps me up? 

The restless specters sent to collect blood debts 
the innumerable ghosts of Brooklyn and 
all of my dead grandmothers 
I stay very still and invite easy rest 

Night terrors arrive often as headaches 
pushing me and the air out of the room like smoke to a lung 
lids lay lax 
darkness bleeds 
sweat covers all 
I slip, I scream 

And land, facing the sun 
I haven’t killed men 
I do no one no harm 

I suffer all the same when the day is done