by Claire Smith
He wears his skeleton,
a Harlequin’s costume;
bones curve, map over his body.
They clap at the door
twice, three times, once more
Trick or treat!
Trick or treat!
Trick or treat!
He fumbles for a key
in his pockets — pokes
fingers through worn holes.
They rattle buckets,
raw eggs at the ready.
Trick or treat!
Trick or treat!
Trick or treat!
The door rattles ajar —
he demands their business
his voice a crackling fire.
They run down the path
bramble garlands grate their legs.
Trick or treat!
Trick or treat!
Trick or treat!
Haunted
by his eyeless sockets, skinless
cheeks, jaws full of blood-stained teeth —
his calls radiate back
into the starless sky.
Their way of escape lit
only by the full moon’s
glow.
Claire Smith writes poetry about other worlds. Last Christmas she celebrated with Odin, visiting a twenty-first century retail park. She’s been to the house of sweets from ‘Hansel and Gretel,’ but in the 1950s, where a rockabilly and his wife join the children to get rid of the real villain. When on earth Claire lives in Gloucestershire, UK, with her husband and their Tonkinese cat. Her work has appeared recently in Songs of Eretz, Corvid Queen, Illumen, and Spectral Realms. She is currently doing her PhD in Literary and Critical Studies at the University of Gloucestershire. Find her on the web at divingfornightmares.co.uk.
