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Even with Samhain closing in, there’s no fog or mistthat divides the living and the dead. I’m already a ghost –a brief blur you might remember. No halo around the hunter’s moonwhere clouds hover then shrug and move on. Maples and oaks shufflewhat’s left of their leathered leaves, bear theContinue Reading

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I see her now, raking the firewith an old brass poker,sparks fly up in protestat such brazen intrusioninto their warm,drowsy dying. She is afraid of death,avoids any tv murder,or prolonged, fatal illness.Drawn out, death bed dramas,occasions to put the kettle on,to rake the fire to ashes,to put the cat out,Continue Reading

On:

She had ghosts in her blood–born with them in her cells–raised with them–heard their voices at nightwhen her mother said prayers. When her babies were born,the ghosts followed the childrento their new lives –born in their cells.Ghosts knew themfrom their mother’snightly prayerswhen she spoke their names.Continue Reading

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(To SH, JR, KB, and anyone else I’m forgetting to thank for continuing to haunt me) Haunt me gently, as your lifetimes reappear. On my windshield reflection, in sudden trepidation. Thought long gone away, in a shifting mind’s state. I won’t ask you to leave, and I probably never will,Continue Reading

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Toiling amidst the smell of peanut oil and potatoesA stool to hold our port-of-callWe gather in a longshoreman’s barTo tell our split of historyHow it was and will never be again. And left to a generous demise of muscle and workPensions too small and odd jobsWe tell of storms thatContinue Reading

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TV is Ellie’s escapeafter a long day of work;she likes slipping into livesshe’ll never have, losing herselfin foreign places, giving her heartto fictional characters.The British sitcom Ghostsis her favorite because she adoresthe ridiculousness and lovelinessof this found family of dead souls.Of course she knows ghosts aren’t real,but she can’t helpContinue Reading

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When he woke frisky this morning,I thought to cancel.But bad days outnumber good.He grows insubstantial,as though life vaporizes through skinthat hangs like laundry on a line,and he struggles to rise,each stiff-legged step painful. Fur-draped boneleaves few places to insert a needle.But he doesn’t whimper or struggle.He trusts me. I feelContinue Reading

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(with a nod to Rumi)The you I once knew is tied up in a basement. It’s dark and cold and isolated from view. When I illuminate your body, with a candle’s flicker, and the knots that bind you to that sturdy wooden chair, I can’t let myself stay too long.ThisContinue Reading

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Z.B. Wagman is an editor for the Deep Overstock Literary Journal and a co-host of the Deep Overstock Fiction podcast. When not writing or editing he can be found behind the desk at the Beaverton City Library, where he finds much inspiration.Continue Reading