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Scuttling forth

each quarter moon

from the darkest depths

of our once-proud heritage;

that coal-choked, aching abyss

Them we dare not name

skitter among Blue Ridge pines

with arachnid grace of too-long limbs and candyblood grins and sightless jellybean eyes

Pale, grasping maggot-fingers

wriggle under stuck-open windows

grub and fumble

with our trailer's


One of them giggles my name

in a slowed-down record voice

doing its best impression

of my baby sister Maisel

who got took not two weeks ago

Daddy hears it too, reaches


for his whiskey

keeps his double-barrel leveled at the trailer door

I mumble a little prayer:

please, God -

let us just

make it



It's good to see

everyone in the light of day

even with them we dare not name chattering

just beyond the treeline


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