Triplets at a Ouija Board, 1951 by Adam Tavel

If they’re communing with themselves, bewitched

by caverned basement shadows candlelit

and musk of brick, old rags, damp empty sleeves

mother hung to dry, how peevishly should we

scoff? No father clumps to break this teenage ring,

their self-spooked rudiments of faith. Each clings

the wooden planchette frozen here mid-glide

in this grainy snapshot. Each sister’s eyes

squeeze shut reverentially inside a face

beautifully redundant. Of course it’s staged:

a finger clicks the shutter button when

flat alphabets awake. Little coven,

some spirit snaps your spirits as you yearn

for ghosts you bore together to return.

Adam Tavel is the author of five books of poetry, including two new collections: Green Regalia (Stephen F. Austin State University Press, 2022) and Sum Ledger (Measure Press, 2022). His third book, Catafalque, won the Richard Wilbur Award (University of Evansville Press, 2018). His recent poems appear in North American Review, Ploughshares, The Georgia Review, Beloit Poetry Journal, Ninth Letter, The Massachusetts Review, Copper Nickel, and Western Humanities Review, among others. You can find him online at http://adamtavel.com/.

6 June 2022