Four Poems
by John Sara
Grave Robbing for Morons
Make sure there’s no witnesses, he says—
and he stutters as he says it,
kill if you must,
as though there were ever a chance
you’d get caught. If you’ve written
one death poem, you’ll
write another,
two more;
write about the skeletons
I keep on the porch
year round, how I make them
look real.
I think I’ve known someone
like him; odd, macabre, remember
the kid at the back of the class who
said he could keep punching
till his hand split open,
feeling no pain,
and maybe he told me because
he knew I could hold the camera
steady; rob a grave for a quick buck;
for a prompt,
a guide
for morons,
and that is what we’ve always
been.
my friend stutters again;
reach into the eye holes;
remember there’s nothing here
that can actually hurt you.
That One Youtube Video That Scared You as a Kid
You know; the one with the big red arrow in the thumbnail,
pointing to what looks like the girl from The Ring?
Where the girl turns to the camera, but her reflection doesn’t
follow,
and then when you least expect it,
a scary face pops up with a loud
AHHHHHHHH!
high-pitched;
more shriek than
scream
and that face haunts
you as you stare at the ceiling
and your room has turned that shade
of orange,
as though your closet’s an inferno
for something to crawl right out of,
pale, ghostly—
a story to tell ‘round the campfire,
or reminisce in the comments.
Dead Cat Walking
Schrodinger’s cat was never alive
to begin with. We buried it in
King’s Pet Sematary; revived
it with words and let it star
in a Giallo movie,
where a woman screams
as it eats her brain— hissing
like an approaching bus,
just as in Cat People,
where the cat was a metaphor
for sex
and death.
We brought Schrodinger’s cat back
through AI; let it live with all the
other dead cats on our phones,
called it a gift for grieving parents
and those who believe the soul
can be contained
inside a box.
A Poem about Batman
would probably begin when I’m eight
years old and Heath Ledger is dead
and I’m whispering why so serious?
to my sister’s fifth-grade teacher
as though I’m not sure if I want
to bring chaos to Gotham
or protect it.
I’m sick with pneumonia on Christmas.
Before that, I tell the Thanksgiving
table I’m grateful for Batman.
I still mean it, I think—
Playing Arkham City
for the first time is the closest
one can get to a spiritual experience;
chorus singing, the way Batman cradles
Joker in his arms like the Pietà.
I’m 12 years old. I don’t want
to be a writer, I want to be a vigilante.
I watch the neighborhood through binoculars.
Brood on rooftops.
I’m 18 and criminology major sounds better
than superhero, even if I don’t know
what it means beyond
a call.
I’m 20 and Batman emerges through
my window. It’s raining and he’s grimacing.
He says there are other ways to help,
as if writing can bring down
The Joker and
The Penguin
and all the others
and I make promises I can’t keep
about promises I can’t keep.
BIO: John Sara is a writer from Parma, Ohio. He received his MFA in Creative Writing from Ashland University, where he works as an adjunct professor and lead fiction editor for The Black Fork Review. He recently published his debut poetry collection, The Poet Who Cried Monster, through Alien Buddha Press. His other work can be found in such places as Prairie Margins, Paper Dragon, Blood+Honey, Maudlin House, Bending Genres, Schlock! Webzine, Cul-de-sac of Blood and more. Instagram: @darkbat616.