February 9, 2023
Dismal Days at the Church in Auver-sur-Oise
Beeping hands, ghostly bands,My palms, they sense the deceased.Adrenal glands, what disturbed lands!Specter juice left behind by the teased.My finding fingers, they poke many ghosts,But some men, I cannot sense.They are senior gamblers, troubled hosts,Their lying apparitions are dense.Fibbing in life, falsifying death,As if their hands still hold the cards.Paranormal scum, straight whisky breath,Pure brutish bodyguards.Hoarding poker chips, the floating few,Always slide into their stash.Six feet under, what more to accrue?Invisible plastic is comparable to trash.One way to catch them, one captured way,Is to hold out handfuls of loot.Even if my palms sense no arrayOf gamblers—Holy Water will shoot.
— © 2022 by Sofia Terranova
Sofia is a senior at the Sheboygan campus earning her B.A. in English (creative writing emphasis) and a B.F.A in creative writing.
Find this poem and other written and visual works in the 2022 Northern Lights Literary and Arts Journal. Submit your poetry, creative nonfiction, and fiction to the 2023 Northern Lights! Click here for more information.