The virgins have been harvested.
Villagers buried the remains
The cemetery is filled to bursting.
Wolves howl from the black heart of the forest.
Dark clouds on the horizon:
a distant castle brews the weather hereabouts.
But all is not dismal.
There’s always the tavern –
folks drink their way to forgetting.
Some even still venture out after dark.
They love the tremor of their own fear,
thrill to the shifting shape of shadows.
There’s ones that feel they’ve
nothing else to live for,
bait the night with misery,
pray to the devil for their demise.
They’re the ones that always come back alive.
Of course, eventually,
there’ll be no more young women.
The men will leave for the city.
The old will wither away.
Not even the castle
can survive erosion by its own evil.
Denuded by un-slaked thirst
and flights of sun.
coffin dwellers will shutter their lids
one final time.
Other than that,
Sonya is pregnant,
expecting a demon child in June.
Hans is getting over a plague.
Ernest was bitten by a strange wild dog.
Young Ambrose’s school project
is to make a man out of the
flotsam and jetsam of corpses.
So how are things in Iowa?
No different from here I suppose.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Schuylkill Valley Journal, Cape Rock and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Louisiana Review, Poem and Spoon River Poetry Review.