by Jack Chastain
Hollow of heart, do not be scared. The lanterns
need dimming, and you must cast away
the moths. Tonight, you hide remember
down a path that is not your past, plucking tales
from every feather, trailing colors you have lost.
Nothing stays good for long. In the darkling cave,
old years tucked away in chests, assorted stacks
of crowns and kings, the shards of conversation
breaking like glass. Unnail yourself from words
that rot these voices. Go home and map your body
to the stars. A drop of honey spilling down ripe
shoulders, the haunted creek dispelled from winter
chains. It runs where it is headed, a spirit to forget
with you in all of this: the antlers and masks, a breath
between the trees. Tonight, these leaves become
the bones you’re willing to touch. Tonight, these scars
help shape the way hands hold under your skin.
Jack Chastain is a reader for Whiskey Island Magazine and is working to complete his MFA at Cleveland State University through the NEOMFA program. He lives in Akron, Ohio.