Sex and Murder Magazine

By Derek Richards

the pale face at the window,
a star of stone,
then youth cracked
behind shredded glass
and endless night.

we released hands.
she crossed herself,
muttered a prayer.
i shielded my eyes,
cursed.
we so often think alike.

the progression of hauntings
has de-valued the local newspaper,
offered careers to the old and mad.
the last sheriff retired
after firing his weapon seven times,
unable to explain
the horror of that single hour.

and so we know the boy is real.
it's obvious the eyes are dead,
the lips grey.
our blood freezes for a reason.
we could walk faster.
we both know this.

taking our time
stifles the scream,
softens the panic,
and very likely
gives the boy
his proper respect.