Every Friday night we feature a short story, essay, personal narrative, poem,
spoken word, or short film for your enjoyment.
Tonight’s poem is from John P. Kristofco
They startle us at midnight,
spindle-legged translucence skitting on the rug,
wall, ceiling where they taunt us upside down.
Who knows where they go or live,
all the others waiting,
silent like our fear.
We squash them in the carpet,
sweep them from our doorways,
timid, venial moments of our souls,
as if we could forget,
as if the fragile flesh did not remain,
staining fabric, smudged across the wood
with another hundred, maybe thousands
ready in the corners, out of sight,
waiting like our demons
for their passage
from the web of taunting darkness to the light.
John P. (Jack) Kristofco’s poetry and short stories have appeared in about two hundred publications, including: Slant, Folio, Rattle, Fourth River, Santa Fe Review, and Cimarron Review. He has published three collections of poetry and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times.