ghost tour of salem village

by Kailey Tedesco

mud in the form of a wound is kissed
               by a carnation on our footpath,

each petal an inscription of fracture
               or bleed—

all of this a last prayer recited in perfect unison
               with a doppelgänger of god’s.

cease your trust in the muntin windows,
               each of them mourning their city,

now in wax. someone once warned us
               a devil could be a soul

chicken-skinned in candlesticks, a mold
               to be filled with folklore,

immaculate. a devil might also be the ghost
               tour’s church basement, wood-spindled

with poppet prick & cobwebs & eye rubs
               & vhs tapes fast forwarding

oyer & terminer, ready now to receive
               a divination of glitch. the non-

witches record their heartbeats
               in the wax of their bobbsey

& make a ribbon of yellow-brick
               naming their dead. it is true,

after all, what they say about blood
& the way that we drink it—

so many of us came born with it
               already at the back of our throat.