A Magazine of Many Arts

Gretchen Tessmer

afterwards, she locks the casket
by silver candlelight
which bounces in enclosed spaces
cat-like
casting shadows
over all this gargoyle-gothic
New Orleans masonry
flooded
with swamp water
condensation puckering up
the mold that fits in
shallow sea-caves
trapping blue-green beads of
salty, selkie dreams
in curling beards
of gray algae
her family said they’d never last
she, shackled to tides
he, buried without sunshine
all blood spatter
on oyster pulp
and leather-skin kneading
damp-rot bones
purple rings beneath his eyes, cobwebs on her water wings
(it’s the little things)
she hangs the key around her neck
and leaves the crypt so quietly