V. C. McCabe
Banshee knows where your eyeballs go every night when you dream.
She whispers. She whispers. She whispers.
Your only warning— a susurrus hiss, a quiet crinkle like paper
dolls, tearing, a sundering rip. She straddles
your chest, her vicious vise grip. She hums & thrums
her thighs, your lungs, her drum
your ribs, her harp, unstrung.
A macabre melody, an eerie intro to her somnolent serenade,
her lullaby cry, her spectacular, spectral scream.
She’s crafty in the dark, sewing at the
midnight hour, her fine needle threaded with
razor wire— stitching
your mouth, her crooked, bloody seam.
Grotesque her visage, you adore her bulging, bloodshot eyes,
her protruding, putrescent tongue, rotting & rough, she’ll lick your skin
raw as you sleep. She, the succubus,
you, her succulent
treat. You’d scream, too,
in such employment, but
a ghoul’s
gotta eat & you smell ripe enough. The stink of you, her new
favorite perfume.
Gruesome, her grasp, her hanging hag hair, a shroud of woe on
your winter bed. She warms up her voice, a cacophonous scale,
an echo of
discordant dread.
O, glorious scream!
We eagerly await your marvelous, monstrous birth.
But first,
she’ll hollow you out—a flesh shell, a ringing bell calling her
to worship, to sing.
She feels your surrender coming, the cutting cold, the howling wind,
your slipstream into oblivion.
Your death rattle, her tambourine.
The last song. Her last kiss.
She seals your bed into a sarcophagus.
Your ghastly bride, your defrocked priest, your
malevolent morphine drip release. The time for
reckoning has come.
O, glorious scream!
Your ghost, her spawn.
***
V.C. McCabe is the author of Give the Bard a Tetanus Shot (Vegetarian Alcoholic Press, 2019). Her work has appeared in exhibits and journals worldwide, including Poet Lore, Prairie Schooner, The Minnesota Review, Five:2:One, Queen Mob’s Tea House, and Barren Magazine. Her website is vcmccabe.com.