Tausha Johnson

Five Poems

 

 

Blood Sisters

 

The eldest says, Pull the worm apart, it will grow into two

The younger does as she's told, pulls on it like a chord,

they are two but they are one.

 

The eldest says, Let's cut our skin, mix the blood

The younger doesn't like pain, but offers her finger,

they are two but they are one.

 

In their teens, the eldest teaches the youngest

to sneak out nights to meet boys behind the school.

They share cigarettes and joints, but the youngest

doesn't like to inhale. It's the only way to share the

experience, says the eldest, blood sisters share everything.

 

They eventually share husbands,

I do your husband, you do mine.

There are no children. They have agreed if one

can't conceive, neither can the other.

We’ll always have each other, says the eldest.

 

The eldest divorces, says, He's no good for you.

The younger says, He's no good for me. Files for divorce.

 

The eldest says, We don't need no man,

her hair falling out, dementia crippling her words.

 

I'm done with men, she says;

the younger nods, says, I'm done with men too.

 

Money dries up. No pension. No work, no worth.

Old hags no use.

 

The younger says, You cut my wrist, I'll cut yours.

It's for the best, says the eldest.

 

It's for the best, they say together.

 

 

The Visit

 

One night

when you are still young enough

to believe the impossible

you hear a knock at the door

a God-forbidden hour

In your child body

wearing that pink Victorian gown

you tremble

certain it's a ghost

Your mother

holding your hand

takes you to the door

assures you

there's nothing

to fear

 

Door opened

you look left

then right

No one in front

nothing down the street

“See, there's no one there,”

mother's voice from another time.

 

One night

when you've forgotten

the impossible

you find yourself walking

down the middle of a street

a timeless hour

The air is misty

it has a familiar guiding glow

There's a wooden door

it opens

 

A young woman

holding a girl

stands in front of you

Ah yes, you remember that Victorian gown

 

You watch yourself

look left

then right

“See, there's no one there,”

mother says, staring right through you.

 

 

The Bootlegger's Wife

 

During the Depression

it was your job

to throw moonshine

down the privy

when the sheriff

stormed in smelling

of smoke and sweat,

lust on his lips

his rifle poking

at your dress

you never complained

the children would go

hungry or be driven

to steal apples

from the Governor’s

orchard – you'd say,

“Yes Sir,”with head down

to hide the shame

and bit your lip

until one night

the girl from the outhouse

rose up, eyes black and glassy,

cursing so the walls shook,

as your wire hairpins

made him go

silent.

 

 

Communing with the other side

 

It's a finger, not a fist, the instrument

that kills savages and soldiers. This one repeats

fire, so effective it catches you off guard,

haunting your eardrums long after the trigger's been pulled.

 

To seek advice from a medium is medieval

To hear the dead through the barrel of a gun is madness

To build for the spirit world is

eccentric.

 

            Hello, can you hear?

 

Her father-in-law, Oliver F. Winchester,

was the master architect, though dead, financed

the building with his simple invention, his killing

contribution that was how the West was won.

 

(and why some say she lost her mind)

 

Marasmus

was unheard of in their circle. No explanation for

the decay, except a curse resonate of Shakespeare,

cast upon the family by their own making.

 

Tragedy repeated fire: her husband inherited

a fortune from those weapons. Blood money –                     

carnage, carnage –  she believed they were seeking

retribution. Eye for an eye, what comes around goes around.

 

You must build like a spider, keep weaving your web, trap them

or bang, bang you're dead! The medium, Mr. Adam Coons, said.

 

Black widow veiled, she had the money and

the madness to bring them back from the grave.

Mazes and other world guidance to keep their victims at bay,

buying time from harm's way, purchasing immortality...

 

            Shh, listen, they're speaking – 

 

She says:

What should I do? How should I build?

Hush little darling, don't say a word. Ashes,

ashes, they all come out of the –

 

ashes.” And when the earth shook, she blamed the damned

for trapping her under their dust. No one understands

this fear, living with the devil at her neck, why

she's selling her soul to resurrect the dead.

 

Now it's been just over a century since they found her

in that room, where ghosts plucked at her heart like

bullets to the chest. Ready, aim, fire!

They finally came as she expected.

 

(and you came as she expected)

 

            Hello, can you hear us?

 

Of course none of the living see

the bullets through our bodies,

none of you see her sitting there in

her blue room writing on her plancette

 

No one believes you can commune with the other side,

or that the dead send messages to the living.

 

The number 13 is only superstition,

            the skinned cat,

                        the floating ball,

                                    spirit paintings by angel hands...

 

She writes:

It's not the dead you have to fear –

the rifle is the real deal

History will repeat itself,

 

History will repeat itself, itself...

History will repeat, repeat, repeat

 

repeat

 

Finger on the trigger

discharge,

Blast!

                        Now...

                        you have no lifeline ---

 

 

Haunted

 

In that film you loved, a ghost

arrives unaware of its passing

and speaks to those with sensitive

abilities. We watch and laugh

at the freak who hears voices

and whispers to the dead. Perhaps

this is why I say nothing about

your mother who sits beside

you, transparent as a négligée.

She is afraid of what will

transpire if the truth is told.

 

Once, after a bad argument, you

left me alone with her in one of her

moods. She upturned the house,

the kitchen a flood of broken birds

and glass, our Blue Willow wedding

China severed at the beaks.

When you return, less irate but

filled with illusion, you slip and

cut open your hand. Stunned by

the separation of skin and lines,

you turn to me for answers.

 

Do you remember that movie about

the mother who killed her children?

Suffocated them in their sleep with a pillow?

Who didn't realize she was gone until

the medium appeared and asked,

“What happened to you in this room?

What did your mother do to you?”

 

 

Tausha Johnson holds an M. Litt. in Creative Writing from the University of St. Andrews (Scotland). Her poetry and fiction have appeared in various publications, most recently The Best of Vine Leaves Literary Journal 2013. She lives a quiet life in the countryside of Spain, though she often surfaces as the Program Director for The Horror Writer's Workshop in Transylvania, Romania. Bienvenue au Danse, Tausha.