The Dead Girls Speak in Unison
Danielle Pafunda

We used to do it, too.
Put a finger on the planchet
and hope for something even sluttier
to reveal its shuddering self
on the rod, skittering
in the curtains.

We used to yes or no it
until worn out.
We used to do it
over and over
as though it wouldn’t
make us blind.

Whose brother is that?
Spying through glass?

A girl might need
a punishment

in the worst way.

Everyone knew.
Spin her 100 times.

Bloody Mary.  Bloody,
her frigid face.

Whose corpsey brother,

all wig and claw
and rigid jaw,

floating, bloated,
copping a feel?