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Two for Thanksgiving from Evan J Peterson

By on November 28, 2013

Blessings, or: The Monster’s Thanksgiving

 

0. The unnerving presence of a child

        without empathy.

 

I. A lie that tells the truth:

        the blood-spattered painting

        and Dorian unblemished.

 

II. The way snow absorbs the sound

        of approaching predators.

 

III. Mother’s lost teeth, clicking around

        in my mouth.

 

IV. An old, dank mansion on the hill.

        Its gardens: tightening.

 

V. Prophetic tattoos.

 

VI. Three teenagers: two boys

        and a girl in one

        bed, defiant, their eros

        bright in the tusky grin

        of death.

 

VII. A mold that glows and hums, spreading.

 

VIII. Indigenous hexes.

        Colonists bleeding out.

 

IX. Centipedes in the crawl spaces.

        Crawl spaces of the body.

 

X. The blanched face of the cartomancer,

        speechless as she turns the cards.

        The potential of talismans.

 

XI. The body erupting with roaring force,

        the mutant intimacy of changing breeds.

 

XII. The quiet noose swinging at a crossroads.

 

XIII. Incense and candlesmoke

        curled about Sylvia’s neck:

        a scarf that beheads.

 

XIV. New & tender orifices,

        holes that serve no purpose

        except to those who made them.

 

XV. Set, god of desert predators,

        shoving whole pyramids

        into his eye (just to feel).

 

XVI. The quick two creaks and moment

        of realization

        before the bone gives and splinters.

 

XVII. Ink and thrash: the dark

        of bleeding underwater.

 

XVIII. No face, no way to scream.

 

XIX. Questions at the exhumation:

        bones in her casket

        that cannot possibly be human.

 

XX. The three still minutes

        before the corpse reanimates.

 

XXI. The harrowing: escape

        is only just begun.

        Now run.

***

Ode To God

 

Roast me,

O God,

like a duck

sucked tight

in my own

hot fat.

 

Make me wine,

No!

Too common.

 

Make me

deeper than wine,

make me

mead, ambrosia,

 

trans-

substance,

my honey

in Your mouth.

 

Sun drip,

thousand drops

of gold,

 

place each letter

of your Solar

name

onto this tongue.

 

Master Lightning,

brighten this body,

blast it,

 

blow it,

pluck my limbs

quick with

silver.

 

Make me a Grail,

cupful of God,

catching You,

feeding You back

to Your Self.

 

Peel me

like a cypress

switch & rub

me down

with oil,

 

rose, rosemary,

cold-pressed olive.

Thy rod, thy branch,

thy slithering staff,

 

thy spray

of glittering

mercury–

 

I, Ganymede,

I, Hyacinth:

 

have me,

God,

to slip down

 

and down

and down upon

your golden

winged wand.

***

Big thanks to Evan J Peterson for these! Be sure to pick up his new book the Midnight Chanel from Babel Salvage Press.

The Midnight Channel evolved from Evan’s “serial” poetry project, “Final Girls,” a chain of odes to the female survivors of slasher films. From there, Evan added male characters and odes to the films themselves, expanding beyond the slasher subgenre. The end result is a lyrical journey that explores power, gender, sexuality, victimhood and monstrosity. More lucid/narrative than Evan’s first chapbook collection, Skin Job,The Midnight Channel is a sequel of sorts, marking the next step for this emerging author, poet and cultural critic in his exploration of the horror and science fiction genres through poetry.

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