Unnamed

His first breath sounded like his last:
long choking wail
of fear, confusion, and thirst for air.
Blue when he was born, umbilical
cord wound around his neck
and when he dropped, it unspooled
like a yoyo string.

There was no bounce back.
There is no bouncing back
from being unwanted so early.

Shoved inside a weathered duffel bag.
thrown into a garbage bin.
Before the crush of the truck
vanquished his breath,
he was buried with grave gifts
Nestle water bottles
meat wrappers
used condoms
broken lawn furniture.

In death he still wails,
wanting things he never had a name for.
Screams hide beneath the screeches
of gulls fighting over garbage,
the squeaks of rats,
the wet slither of maggots,
the growls of heavy machinery.

His tombstone is the landfill sign.

White Sheets Rust

This.
This is.
This is how.

When he came home, he wondered whose rusty sheets fluttered from the clothesline. The ground beneath them shaded green grass grey.

The white sheets rust not from red towels but from her thighs. Her hollow belly hung. The water on her hands red as birth water.

Why?
Why did?
Why did you?

She had no answer. Only words with no meaning. A babble of tongues as the spirit alighted upon her. His head fell in her lap and she did not catch it.

She is elsewhere now.
Elsewhen.
Else.

When his tears wet the cotton that must be hung to dry. Where the cord is blue as her lips and tongue, and the sheets as white as the clouds in her eyes.

Shantell Powell is an elder goth raised on the land and off-grid. An Aurora finalist and Banff Centre for Arts and Creativity horror alum, her work appears in Nightmare, The Deadlands, Augur, Strange Horizons, & more. She hangs out with chinchillas and writes scary stories.

shanmonster.dreamwidth.org