Psychic – by David Henson

 

She picks up the dead’s lingering
confusion like jazz
tuned by the one-in-a-million
filled tooth. She sees

their faces floating in the skin
of grease on her soup.

Some nights she awakens feeling
their lost hopes
spidering over her breasts.

Some nights the dead phone her
dreams with heavy breath,
beg one last chance
to turn on
courage, disrobe
all they should have said.

A dim room,
joined circle.
Her eyes roll back:
candles flicker; hands squeeze ;

her tongue twitches,
stills.
The dead failing again
to find the words.

 

 

 

David Henson lives in Peoria, Illinois, USA with his wife. His work has previously appeared or is upcoming in Pikestaff Forum, Ascent, Literally Stories, Eunoia Review, and others.

 

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