2 Poems, by Sam Treviño
On warm sweaty nights,
I put in a bit of ghost practice–
hiding in mirrors,
throwing chains around to spook the neighbors,
ruining the good sheets
with eyeholes. If I think hard enough
I can become so faint I’m hardly here–
a great trick at parties, where the fighting
and boasting are cut by the
of whiskey and Sam Cooke songs.
When I eventually bite it, I’ll be the best ghost:
I will skip the orientation
and go straight on to keep floating around what I miss.
My skeleton will be a thousand tiny wishbones.
Let me take off my werewolf mask for you and
feel the full moon on my bare skin. I’d like nothing more
than to co-star in a hundred monster movies with you –
we can trade off screaming bloody murder and
being the scary one who is calling from inside the house.
Some folk use a silver bullet as a kind of foreplay and
why can’t all loves be that courageous and visceral?
Can you hear the symphony of romantic chainsaws?
The orchestra of the living dead, tuning their violins.
The staccato of the butcher knife massacre of bedsheets
and shower curtains.
Far from the town, the man in the hockey mask anxiously wrings
his bloody sausage fingers and whispers to those starry-eyed campers after midnight:
be tender to one another, it’s damn lonely out in these woods.