
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
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