"Under the bed-" by Grace Bartlett

Poetry - Grapevine, Winter 24/25 Issue

my cousin whispered stories to me in the dark about something so un-human the soul recognizes it, 

twisted faces and clawed fingers, bent at different angles and it eats little girls, she tells me, 

how horrifying, how silly 

heads shifting under a soft blanket, small warm hands grasping mine for comfort, a flashlight 

illuminating  the side of her face, an orange shield meant to keep the evil out 

more ghost stories muttered, interrupted occasionally by giggles or gasps, a scene I understand 

watching from a corner, a thread of loneliness strung through me, I am practicing keeping my hands to myself

we argue once, about something I saw in her eyes when she spoke of the monsters, how her eyebrow twitched

she tells me to keep that to myself, and I do

upon meeting someone, I like to greet them with a firm shake and wait 

to see what they do, understand that they are something cultivated and soft 

small hands clenched together for warmth, she is observing, face spasming 

something bent, warped with skin stretching, in a corner and grasping 

There's a moment in between, when my hand reaches and the light hits it just there, you can see all 

the way through, no tissue or veins or blood,

my ring finger and thumb are bent backwards

so I smile harder, make sure I don't meet her eyes, watch an eyebrow twitch

until I am all soft and light