Allison Martin
copyright 2006 Fear Knocks
Possession

People they've stopped                        
talking
to me
I don't know whether I'm lonely                                
or elated
to say the very least,
it's one more worry
abated
 
Their mouths are all twisted
like the roots of a
festering tree
when they speak at me
-not to me-
it is more a command and less a plea
So I've plugged my ears
with wax the color of pitch
and of a viscous consistency

I've stopped bathing
as well
They whisper,
It is her skin emits the disease
so far as they can tell
and I accept whatever they would like to believe
it's easier on them-
but mostly on me

I can't stop sneezing
or scratching
I've started tripping on them,
the bodies
they accuse me of snatching
when I swear
I was asleep
they hear me speaking Latin
or some such language
of which I never learned
a peep

my dreams they keep me
awake-
in them is but a little girl
with dense black eyes
and a linen slip barely covering her knees

she carries a whittled stake
                        and she is stabbing,
                        stabbing it
                        at me
Allison Martin is an MFA Creative Writing candidate at Naropa University in Boulder, Colorado.  She lives in Atlanta, Georgia, with her cat and a modest number of zombie affiliates.