by FM Stringer
We chased that hunger
through unset brick, fugitives,
into The Mayfair roofless and boarded,
litter of frame and orange velvet, piled
with gels and things incinerated,
the fire took it all.
We came to find the headless
sisters gleaming like silverfish,
retold it, their father in a fugue,
the buzzsaw we added ourselves.
Some grew dizzy from stolen
bottles, felt that warp of nicotine first,
scrambled shadowless over cushions
breached by springs.
Eric lost a finger playing
piano in the machinery, boneyard
beam and hammer, slip of metal.
It was our first taste of real blood.
In his version he did not scream,
but we heard the night rip open.
Our flashlights found the blood
first, then the knot of hands, his face
like water draining, everything
dissolving.
We all tell the rest wrong, but I remember
next a sudden chill laughing.
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FM Stringer is a MFA Candidate at the University of Maryland. Originally from New Jersey, he presently lives, writes and listens in Baltimore. He loves Space, horror, and hip-hop.
