Mice of Hallows by Meg Smith

The night would come

when children no longer arrived

in ghost-sheets and paper bag masks. 

They would run through

their thread of time, and unravel.

But for her, it is enough,

as she braids her green-gray hair.

A candy bowl will sit, full, with  unwrapped,

“fun size” bars.

She will open them, and cut them into small

squares, with the same sure fingers that have

knitted the smallest of caps, and scarves,”

for dolls,” but, no.

With napkins spread on the yellow linoleum, 

she will lay out these, her offerings, and

call them with a word in their own language.

They will out from beneath the cabinet,

the refrigerator, and the chip in the cellar door —

in their gray coats, precise toes,

and eyes bearing for her, a greatest gift — 

dark moons of unfailing light.

Meg Smith is a writer, journalist, dancer and events producer living in Lowell, Mass. 
Her poetry and fiction have recently appeared in The Horror Zine, Dark Dossier, Sirens Call, Raven Cage, Dark Moon Digest, and many more. 
She is author of five poetry books, and a short fiction collection, The Plague Confessor. 
She welcomes visits to megsmithwriter.com

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