Friday the 13th

A day for spooky things that unnerve and pull at the edges of sight, just out of reach. Like the rat who lay in hysterical deadness alongside the corn field, frozen in a sickly cackle, yellowed incisors bare, less fang than bone, a skeleton erupting. I laughed, too, for finding him on Friday the 13th.

Israeli men pissing on corpses of killers, skeletons bubble-wrapped in dusty flesh, dead bellies echoing kicks from enraged boots with mindless shudders. Pain masquerading as joy on Friday the 13th.

We notice a crow long after she notices us, midnight’s overlord sitting spooky atop dead limbs that reach beyond any marrow, jaggedly piercing the humid twilight. We simmer in fear enough to liven our cells. We light up together on Friday the 13th.

614 fresh ghosts, Palestinian children rise with ash above a new hell on ancient soil. Families vanish, pulling at no edges, no sight lines, no sleeves. Obliterated and gone on Friday the 13th.