A Windigo Moves to the Suburbs

Hear the rags settling in my spare room?
No bones remain. I wear sandals
now, mow the lawn on Sundays.
We hum, collide. I like your neck.

This smile takes practice, my lips
too small for teeth. I am greening
with these stews of swamp moss
& mushrooms. It’s been years

since I’ve bitten. See these frostbite
scars? I am still punctuated, Arctic.
I miss some things crisp & larded,
try hard not to see the neighbors

as joints & lobes. My clavicles push
against my skin like sharp wings,
something lycan. This is the opposite
of what’s in your stomach. A fork

standing at attention. Something icy
thumps beneath my shirt, stuttering.
I think you are lemony & attractive
but this is only on the inside.




Susan Slaviero’s first full length collection of poetry, CYBORGIA, is available from Mayapple Press. She has two chapbooks: Apocrypha (Dancing Girl Press, 2009) and An Introduction to the Archetypes (Shadowbox Press, 2008). Her work has appeared in journals Rhino, Flyway, Oyez Review, Artifice Magazine, and others both online and in print. She designs and edits the woman-centered lit zine blossombones.

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from The Demonologist’s Notebook 

corn-offering

the husks are dry, infested with red lizards creeping circles, tiny dijnn. something flutters in the wastelands and thickets, a frisson of dark, batwinged and broken, carving glyphs into the remaining green. here is the place. recall the theology of the harvest, books filled with root diagrams and wicked lyrics. take this forked stick and burn it.

inhabitable bodies

wracked with chills, broken skin, an insignia. this dates back to Babylon. discarnate beings, women with pearl-pricked oysters in their mouths. witch. you are making headaches out of leaves and language. you are chewing fat crouched behind a petalwhite bride, turning lace to entrails.

on finding a tourniquet

she grows her own hemp, feeds the soil with bonemeal and afterbirth. the bride finds a rope, demon-knotted with another woman’s hair. she serves us a dish of strawberries that beat like birds’ hearts, bleeding into lemon biscuits. the cream clots and sours. we cannot breathe.

the crumbling house

this isn’t rust in the bathtub. we find alligators in the plumbing, ghosts slouched in the drawers and cupboards. our eyes cloud when we enter, the pupils spreading black to the outermost corners. we are at ground zero, the malevolent hollow.




Susan Slaviero’s first full length collection of poetry, CYBORGIA, is available from Mayapple Press. She has two chapbooks: Apocrypha (Dancing Girl Press, 2009) and An Introduction to the Archetypes (Shadowbox Press, 2008). Her work has appeared in journals Rhino, Flyway, Oyez Review, Artifice Magazine, and others both online and in print. She designs and edits the woman-centered lit zine blossombones.

Maybe You Are a Serial Killer: With a Conscience: Or a Crime Writer



When the dead girl says beautiful murder she means these hooks are for oystering. She uses those cemetery words you’ve never spoken, wielding them like crucifixion, seizure. You remember her as a bruise, a wink, a tattooed wrist smitten with tar. She is a cut in the shape of a grin. You are positioning the blood so it looks true. She might appear beneath a sun-scorched eyelid as shadow, sinew. She knows your heart is as violent as a queen’s opinion. For this, you whisper lost wife, white dish, weave me a silhouette. Later, you swing a broom counterclockwise, hoping she will materialize in a cyclone of dust mites. You imagine her voice tunneling in your ear, an accusation. Kneeling, you take a breath of rain from a rusty pail. You are fashioning a hangman’s knot.





Susan Slaviero’s first full length collection of poetry, CYBORGIA, is available from Mayapple Press. She has two chapbooks: Apocrypha (Dancing Girl Press, 2009) and An Introduction to the Archetypes (Shadowbox Press, 2008). Her work has appeared in journals Rhino, Flyway, Oyez Review, Artifice Magazine, and others both online and in print. She designs and edits the woman-centered lit zine blossombones.

The Tulpa Speaks to Her Creator




“In the dreamer’s dream, the dreamed one awoke.”
–Jorge Luis Borges


The tuning fork broke when you dreamt
lung, stone, seawater. So I am
incomplete, a sigil with no center,
wearing only this cotton shirt. Flames
lick the circle, a falling vortex
and I am still phantom, homunculus.
This calls for operas, overtures. A red remedy
so I might grow fat and tangible. Your trances
are tidepools swirling black, a place where
the bread burns, the cakes fall flat.
Why should I be any different?
I fill your cups and ashtrays hoping to grow
limbs, to be something less chimerical
than you intended. Sometimes I taste
sugar in my mouth. This usually corresponds
with your breakfast. You did not expect me
to assume the shape of a raven, but really
I am anything that wings discordant, rippling
from wherever you might fall.




Susan Slaviero’s first full length collection of poetry, CYBORGIA, is available from Mayapple Press. She has two chapbooks: Apocrypha (Dancing Girl Press, 2009) and An Introduction to the Archetypes (Shadowbox Press, 2008). Her work has appeared in journals Rhino, Flyway, Oyez Review, Artifice Magazine, and others both online and in print. She designs and edits the woman-centered lit zine blossombones.