And Ouija-board flirting is tricksy, with all the ghostly glow,
your higher-plane abilities, your spelling isn’t strong.
but then come through again, invite me to a show
where the music is as dead as—well, you know. Sounds nice,
aren’t enlivening me, so sick of regular-rhythmed approaches
propagation. It’s like I’m stuck in some play I’ve studied to death,
so we meet. I’m late, of course. Breathlessly relieved–you’re less transparent
you kiss with nothing and don’t bring up the other side. Feels a touch invasive
and I think you’re listening but can’t be sure, what with all the fading
and forgetting of lines. We meet for dinner but I feel it’s rude to eat,
we crack up then admit things are getting pretty weird. I want to keep
for dancing) and try to steal another nothing-kiss – tis here, tis here, tis gone,
and in the morning there are more worms in my second-best bed
before sweeping them into the bin. There are creatures in my heart, too,
But the nothing-touch I’d craved had marked my skin with clotted beats,
and then your teeth fell out, and it’s a rotten mess. Such a grave relief
Best to go no-contact, like the dating sites and exorcists advise.
Annabel Banks (annabelbanks.com) is an English writer of poetry and prose, some published, some prize-winning. She lectures in English and Creative Writing for Falmouth University where she is writing up her practice-based poetry PhD, ‘Poetry and the Archive’. Most recent work can be found in Lockjaw, Jungftak and Inky Needles.