Thursday, November 22, 2012

A GHOST POEM by CARO DECARLO


when you were small, your mother poked two holes in a sheet and put it over your head. she stood you in front of the oven next to your little brother. you found a plastic orange basket on your arm but it was empty. you held your brother’s hand. his hand was sticky. he was dressed like a chicken. he kept quacking even when you told him he was supposed to be a chicken. you could see your mother okay through the two holes in the sheet, but you could see her better when you hooked your fingers in the holes and pulled them down. she said, get together now. she said, stand still. she said, now say boooo! your brother said booo! you smiled. she held down the button. you said booooo! the camera flashed. you disappeared.


- Carolyn DeCarlo


(i forgot to put this is ghost zine i feel terrible about it. i love caro a lot. caro edits UP Literature, a sexy online journal. Caro's blog is great too and there is a list there of where some of her other writing is hanging out).

<3

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