Dark Poetry
Poetry by Christopher Goff, Sara McNallen and Kendra Levac
“A-Cold”
By Christopher Goff


Time takes its bloody time to heal all wounds.
Abrasions ooze a while then turn to sores
And then to scabs, and finally to scars
Enduring for as long as tired hearts pound.
Like tattoos of a name upon the skin,
They make the marks that coroners can use
To name the unknown corpses they peruse
Before the bone-saw splays the guts within.
The heart’s been postmarked at the stations by
Crossroads its divagations intersect.
No human being goes through life intact.
I ask just to be left with breath to cry,
Before I’m gone to ground upon some hill,
Cry: never never rage rage kill kill kill!
The Feast of the Tabernacles
                By Christopher Goff


Must we exalt Him if He lets the posh
Accoutrements of his environment—
That milk and honey, the throne on which He sits—
Go to His head; and if He likes to nosh
On foreskins by the millions for a snack?
We bray for Him to keep us whole and safe,
While treading His strait chute like herds of trayf
Bound for the butcher, as He plies His knack
Of eating us by hand--He disdains forks.
We’re salty tidbits, if a little tough;
And with a gilded screw He pulls the cork
Out of our arteries.  You’d think he’d stuff
Himself eventually; but He craves pork:
Rind after rind, and never rinds enough.
The Bridegroom
By Christopher Goff


If you're a woman who’s not yet a wife,
Hard-boil an egg and cut it down the middle
With a very keenly whetted knife.
Eat both halves salted and you'll solve the riddle
Of who will be your bridegroom:  when you sleep
Having eaten the salted egg you'll dream
A man will fetch you water; drink it deep;
This man will be your husband, and the stream
Of water from the silver cup won't end
Until death parts you; but if a bird should fly
Into your house blown by the keening wind,
Then death is nigh.  Thus when you see the sky
Know that the slightest sparrow there portends
Lamentation for the yet-to-die.
To read other short stories,
click one of the titles below.
Hunter of the Night
By Kendra Levac

The first step is learning to breathe again,
So human, yet necessary to the grand game.

I rise

Air rushes into only pathways, dry and empty,
A still chest only screams out danger.

I rise

The old organs full, the release strange,
Lips relaxing, letting the stale air stir.

I rise

In again, tasting, remembering, searching,
It has been many years since the last hunt.

I rise

Blood red eyes open, cumbersome but clean,
Recall how to see, how to focus on target.

I rise

Fingers stretch, though the movement pointless,
Some habits learn from before are useful to keep.

I rise

Hand reaching, feeling the smooth mahogany wood,
Gently pushing up, letting fresh air in for another taste.

I rise

The breath is stronger now, maw open slightly,
The scent is not far on this hunt, less than a mile.

I rise

A snarl lashes out, all movement suddenly returns,
Hunger makes the living and the dead slaves all.

I rise

The leap causes the coffin to crash to the floor,
Hunter of the night poised until the breath of light.

I rise
About Christopher Goff

Christopher Goff was raised in
Glade Spring, Virginia and now
lives in Bronxville, New York.  He
attended the University of Virginia,
majoring in English literature, and
Harvard Law School.  He has been
writing sonnets for two years.  His
work has been published in Edge
Effects.
About Kendra Levac

Kendra is a fantasy driven writer
living in the heart of Ontario.
Control
By Sara McNallen


Fear takes hold of us,
drowning us,
taking us for a ride.
Always knows just what to say,
unwilling to let go of the tight grip it has on you.

It has become the true friend invading our brains and seeping into our pores.
Still no air, no breath; the grip never ceases…
It takes control of us and you wonder who am I?
Who did I use to be without fear controlling my ever step?

The beauty within ourselves escapes us?
Makes us wonder… makes us see the control.
Our true selves hide within us, screaming to come out.
To do what we want to, but the grip tightens and we,
Inch back to our safety zone.
About Sara McNallen

Sara McNallen is a writer of short
fiction, novels, and poetry. She
lives in San Antonio, TX. She
enjoys the darker side of stories
that can inspire new poems,
novels, or short stories. This is her
first publication in Blood Moon
Rising Magazine.
For poems by
Christopher Goff, Sara
McNallen and Kendra
Levac,
click here

For poems by Brandon
Jackson and
Tony-Paul De Vissage,
click here

For poems by
Christopher Hivner and
Ralph Monday,
click
here