of poe and paisley

According to my sources at Lula, you'll be seeing lots of Mad Men costumes this weekend. Hmm. I'd need to rein in the hair, but with a little work I might be able to pull off a passable Roger Sterling.

If you are looking for something more literary, I'd suggest assembling one of these fine costumes from poets.org. Poe and Emily Dickinson seem do-able, but I've sort of got my eye on that WC Williams -- maybe fill that red wheelbarrow with almond joy bars and dots.

Though I love the velvet blazer look, I've never been much for Poe this time of year. As an alternative, I'll offer this seriously creepy and wicked-good new poem from Paisley Rekdal of the University of Utah.

Bats
by Paisley Rekdal

unveil themselves in dark.
They hang, each a jagged,

silken sleeve, from moonlit rafters bright
as polished knives. They swim

the muddled air and keen
like supersonic babies, the sound

we imagine empty wombs might make
in women who can’t fill them up.

A clasp, a scratch, a sigh.
They drink fruit dry.

And wheel, against feverish light flung hard
upon their faces,

in circles that nauseate.
Imagine one at breast or neck,

Patterning a name in driblets of iodine
that spatter your skin stars.

They flutter, shake like mystics.
They materialize. Revelatory

as a stranger’s underthings found tossed
upon the marital bed, you tremble

even at the thought. Asleep,
you tear your fingers

and search the sheets all night.