Drunk With the Dead

Samhain rolls in like a drunk on the corner—
smelling of smoke and wet leaves,
and you can’t tell if it’s laughter or a scream
behind the black of night.

I’ve walked these streets with the wind cutting my face,
thinking about endings,
the ones you ignore
until they slap you awake.

Cows low in the fields,
or maybe it’s the dead calling.
Old women curse in tongues you almost remember,
sweeping away the last of summer
so winter can finally sit down and drink.

I like the smell of firewood,
the way shadows stretch like lazy cats.
The veil’s thin tonight—
don’t laugh at it.
Don’t dare.

They say Cailleach walks here,
the one who counts your bones,
who bends the storms to her will.
Respect her, and she gives you vision.
Disrespect her, and she leaves you cold,
and alone in the dark
with the crunch of leaves under your own two feet.

I drink a little whiskey.
The smell of cider burns like memory.
I remember endings
like they were old girlfriends
you never wanted to forget.

Samhain isn’t polite.
It doesn’t whisper.
It rips the old skin off your back
and asks you if you’re ready to be born again
from the ashes
and the smoke
and the wind.