Gris-Gris, an online journal of literature, culture & the arts

Autumn 1962

by Eric Pankey


Each day was a minor tragedy averted.

A sandbag levee held back the crest.


Still miles away: lightning.

Or so the thunder said.


Wrought of hair, hemp, and sheep gut:

I was a changeling, a doppleganger,


A ghost whose sole ambition was to be seen.

I nudged at embers to hear their hiss and lament.


Back then, shadow-lengths measured time.

Boredom, like mold, spread by spores.


Because he delivered milk,

The milkman wore white.


When, on the stoop, he set the bottles down,

They chimed brightly against their wire tote.