Mr. Macklin takes his knife 
And carves the yellow pumpkin face: 
Three holes bring eyes and nose to life, 
The mouth has thirteen teeth in place. 
Then Mr. Macklin just for fun 
Transfers the corn-cob pipe from his 
Wry mouth to Jack’s, and everyone 
Dies laughing! O what fun it is 
Till Mr. Macklin draws the shade 
And lights the candle in Jack’s skull. 
Then all the inside dark is made 
As spooky and as horrorful 
As Halloween, and creepy crawl 
The shadows on the tool-house floor, 
With Jack’s face dancing on the wall. 
O Mr. Macklin! where's the door?

The universe demotes me, 
yet again, to coin-operated laundry, 
and each night, when everyone 
is sleeping, our tongues all migrate
one mouth to the left. The tongue 
in your mouth, now, is not 
the one you started out with. Your tongue
is half a world away. None of my dead, either,
have ever been interested 
in coming back. Plastic cups
drift into my yard
from the fraternity house across the street. 
Brothers, I’ve been looking
for someone to hand my body
over to, so that the dirt
will not page through it. Rib bones 
like lines, clouds like accordions, 
and soon enough the rain 
dropping like choir members. What can I say? 
What could be said. The church 
was always so hot. Tongue
come back, come back
for a little bit longer. I’ve only got 
the one death to my name, one death
and I’m not going to ruin it.

the energy healer asks over speakerphone.  
at her name “She’s old. We don’t know the  
number …” a stiff stretch “... but she’s been  
through it.” she slips off the bed “I just saw— 
they took her babies.” curls up facing away 
on the floor “Ah, that makes sense.” Her  
frenzy when the mailman stomps across  
the lawn, howling and hurling herself teeth-
first at the windows. “When you see inside  
someone’s …” “Energy.” “... are you ever  
shocked by how horrible it is?” “How do I 
put this? Always.”