And I’m posting a few poems to get you in the spooky spirit! Zombies, Monsters, Witches…And be sure to check out the “Poems that Scare You” at Escape into Life for a Halloween feature with a new poem from me and two other talented poets…

They Are Not Regenerating
by Jeannine Hall Gailey

We are not zombies, thrown into a pool
of dubious origin and coming back beautiful
but decaying
unsure of how to live – pretending to swim,
eat yogurt like regular girls.

We are not clones, despite being drawn to specifications
(36-26-36) and bearing bouffants and bikinis
we might hack each other to pieces
but we are not confused about our identities

(living or not living) we continue
in this shape we were given
our cells cannot regenerate and the scientist
names us “Dead”
we are not regenerating we cannot reproduce ourselves we cannot be anything
but the fulfillment of your fantasy, flesh-eating or not.

The Monster Speaks: It’s Not So Bad

By Jeannine Hall Gailey (from Becoming the Villainess and based on the legend of Melusine, a French queen who, they say, turned into a dragon…)

Being a monster, really. It slows down traffic
from neighbors and I’m finally getting the respect
I deserve. For years they snickered behind curtains
when I passed by, but now they cross themselves

(I think in reverence.) They clutch babies
to their chests and wail. They lay their hands
over the eyes of the dead. I can peek
in their windows, raid the pantries, curl

up in their attics for a night. I found a picture
they carved of me in black slate.
It wasn’t a very good likeness, but they meant
well. Children dream of me.

I am no longer lonely, I enjoy the dark,
the click-click of my claws against glass,
the way my tail sparkles in moonlight. Even
this new voice bewitches me. If you put

your ear on my chest, you can hear
the new, unfamiliar thumps of four hearts,
each stronger than the last. Touch the skin
between wing-bones, the delicate eyelids.

In this body I’ve become myself again.
As I circle the castle, the song that scrapes
my throat agitates the stars themselves.
The flames of my voice burn the acrid air of night.

Introduction to Witchcraft

by Jeannine Hall Gailey (This poem is new and unpublished, so it may go *poof* after All Hallow’s Eve…)

*Poof*

We are not zombies, thrown into a pool
of dubious origin and coming back beautiful
but decaying
unsure of how to live – pretending to swim,
eat yogurt like regular girls.

We are not clones, despite being drawn to specifications
(36-26-36) and bearing bouffants and bikinis
we might hack each other to pieces
but we are not confused about our identities

(living or not living) we continue
in this shape we were given
our cells cannot regenerate and the scientist
names us “Dead”
we are not regenerating we cannot reproduce ourselves we cannot be anything
but the fulfillment of your fantasy, flesh-eating or not.