Katrina Kaye

Burn it down.
Salt the earth.
Don’t let darkness rise.

Six feet in hallowed soil,
a crucifix,
a blessing,
should keep him.
Yet you still feel
his grip on spine
and your face
still radiates
the heat of his hand.

Not everything dead
stays in the ground.

Earth shakes,
dirt recedes,
and light of a full moon
can illuminate his rise.
He creeps in shadow,
circles corners of room,
hides behind recycled picture frames,
lurks inside a closet
half emptied.

You still feel him.
You flinch at sharp words,
loud noises.
You leave the lights on,
wake with a start when a car speeds by.
Some nights you shiver
as through still expecting
the turn and slap of front door
and warm tequila breath
on your neck.

Let the ground be sanctified.
Keep flowers on stone,
hands wrapped in prayer,
and when he creeps near your door,
don’t invite him in.
Let  pictures wilt,
flowers gather dust,
turn to ash.
Stake  demons in the back.
Shake the curse
like excessive water,
and move out of shadow.

Take heed. Take care.
Fire. Salt.
Renew. Repeat.
Because you know,
not everything buried stays underground ,
and a bullet squeezed through temple
can’t always keep the dead,
dead.

“Waking Dead” is previously published in They Don’t Make Memories Like That Anymore…. (2011).