Collaboration Poetry: Laura Madeline Wiseman & Andrea Blythe

Holding the Keys & The Hellos from the Corners of Quiet Rooms

Words by Laura Madeline Wiseman & Andrea Blythe
Image by Christine Stoddard
​@cstoddard
QuailBellMagazine.com

Holding the Keys
 
Two dogs ghost my side. They bay at every crossroads,
the four-pronged doorways where I scatter herbs, whisper craft.
The dogs know the passages of the living, the paths of the dead.
I hold the key of many realms, a friend’s hand, they their own leash.

In four-pronged doorways I scatter herbs, whisper craft,
draw out poisons, toil for trouble. Under the welkin and moon,
I hold the keys, my friend’s cold hand, the dogs their own leash.
Their tongues loll as they lay idle, awaiting their turn.
 
I draw out poisons, toil for trouble under the welkin and moon
that illuminates the ancient writings of death-lovers and bitches,
while husbands loll, lying idle as they await their turn.
I visit the shrine crowning this city, the marble edifice
 
that illuminates the ancient writings of death-lovers and bitches,
three-form and moon. This morning, I taste the jeweled fruit left
for my visit of the shrine crowning this city, the marble edifice
a bright egg ready for birthing, heavy with the weight of tides.
 
The three-form moon floods the morning, as I taste jeweled fruit left
for my arrival. I eclipse a spot on the earth unseen, becoming
a bright egg ready for birthing, heavy with the weight of tides
tethering storms to shores, unleashing the whipping fury of secrets
 
for my arrival. I eclipse a spot on the earth unseen, becoming
moon, friend to one living in two lands. When to cross? To sacrifice
storms tethered to shores, I unleash a whipping fury of secrets.
Low moans sound as heavy heads and horns strike stone. Bloodied
 
moon, friend of multiple lands. Where to cross? To sacrifice,
to drape yews over the necks of bulls, burn incense, let smoke rise.
Low moans sound as heavy heads and horns strike bloodied stone.
My names scratch the altar. She prays, lifts hands to shed her shroud
 
or drape yews over other bulls, burn incense, let smoke rise
to sacrifice the shame of death. When is it enough? Dogs wait, tails
lowered. Our names scratch the altar. She prays to shed her shroud
as I carry the fruit in my hands, bring it to my mouth to lick clean.
 
Is it enough to wait to sacrifice death’s shame? Dogs lower tails.
They know her passages of the living, her paths of the dead.
As I carry her undoing in my hands, bringing it to my mouth to lick clean,
two dogs ghost my side—each one baying at the crossroads.

 
The Hellos from the Corners of Quiet Rooms
 
They cavort through tombstones in skinny jeans, Converse high tops, and Raybans to play at conjuring ghosts. They imitate the ’80s, but they weren’t there. They never saw Poltergeist, never the flicker of afterlife—silverware bending on its own, chairs sliding across the floor by forces unseen, voices speaking from distant spaces, or mirrors glittering in the night. Even now TVs make me cringe, I tell one. Then to another, When I visit my sister, I stay at hotels and I always drape towels over the screens. They laugh, skipping over a freshly dug grave. Why did I agree to meet them here? One tosses faux flowers. Another twirls faded pinwheels. When my sister bought an old farmhouse, one room became her wardrobe. Among the antique mirrors, she placed ankle-length skirts, leather kid gloves, parasols. Every time the door slammed shut, children’s hands touched her ankles or shook lacy slips. They’re harmless, she said, though other things bothered her—the boarded up windows, the attic that groaned with wind, the room with the peeling closet doors. When he beat her over the money he lost and then left her, she rented that room to strangers who became the kind of friends who pounded walls, remained in the kitchen after midnight, left hotline numbers tucked behind her coffee cups. I brought my sister comfort in the form of old movies, the kind that crept under the skin, then stayed with her late into the dark. How many times does it take until a film fuses with the psyche? The fuzz of static hisses when palms press against screens. Hellos echo in the rooms my sister knew as hell. They’re here. Others may leave, but some cannot, sometimes even kin. I learned to sleep alone, clutching a pillow against shadowed corners and empty doorways. I jump when objects fall, my eyes snapping open, feeling the trace of their hands whisper against limbs slipped from sheets. I never again stayed with my sister after that last time. Who would? Alone, she sings lullabies for children spirits well past midnight. Others bring Ouija boards, gazing balls, or candles, as if an invitation is needed. It’s these I meet in the cemetery now, the ones who want to visit the home my sister refused to leave. Would they even see what presses from every opening there? Every home has such secrets, foundations built over what should never have been maimed—no escape, just a move into another set of flickering rooms, then the wait for the Hello.