Mary Jane rang an Irish refrain,
drunk on Ten Bells whiskey.
Her unpolluted apron ablaze,
she surrendered a scarlet shawl
and her weary wildgrass heart
to the rogue incubus cloaked
in the serrated fog, haunting
every step of squalid streets,
preying on its darkest shadows.
She placed the native beauty berries
upon her wooden churchyard grave,
marked with the Unfortunate’s brand
she seared upon her own scars
when she abandoned everywhere
that could tie her to anyone.
In the end, there was nothing
she would not do
for a fire.
MEGAN MEALOR resides in Jacksonville, Florida, and works full-time as a mother, writer, and pet-sitter. Her poetry and short stories have appeared in Digital Americana, 4 and 20, Midnight Circus, The Rathalla Review, Obsessed With Pipework, Hello Horror, Dark Moon Digest, Belle Reve, Skidrow Penthouse, Broad!, Deep South, Black Heart Magazine, The Belleville Park Pages, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Rat’s Ass Review, Better Than Starbucks, The Front Porch Review, and, most recently, a ten-poem feature in Sick Lit Magazine. Her writing style is patchwork potpourri infused with venom, volcanoes, and raw clarity.