ROCKS IN POCKETS
- Dark Poets Club
- Aug 4
- 1 min read
By Nancy Santos
—after Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery”
The clouds curtsy
or mercy.
The lottery sin
whispers with the wind,
stones skipping
across sacrificial rivers,
the black box
of burden splintered,
the mark of attrition —
a tradition written
on parchment strips,
under-the-bed dark
black holes haunting
from demonic charcoal.
I unfold my fortune
at the scabbiest
summer ritual
for the saddest sadists.
Out damned spot
Silence screams
until my ears bleed
at the town square
assembly,
a murder of crows’
cacophony culling
nonconformity.
It’s not fair. It’s not fair.
Valiant village vandals
volley volcanic pillage
from their stocked pockets
with velocity.
I’m bleeding
the black & white
viscosity
of tar and feathers,
pelted with rocks
like the battering ram beaks
of Alfred Hitchcock’s
birds beating my cheeks,
blood and bent bone
breaking on cobblestone.
Everyone goes on about their day
over plates of pancakes
and biscuits and gravy,
absolved of my absence.