A Quilted Heart

by R.M. Vaughan (Insomniac Press) 153 pp. $14.99
by Thomas Christian

I remember the fruity smell of earth, my first sensation after death. Earth, the scratch of new clothes, and hairspray. My last sensation before death – the fat, lemony zinc taste of the poison Samson had fed me – was gone, because the embalmers brushed my teeth and tongue. They shaved my crotch too. Crazy, no? So I’m in my satin coffin and I feel calm, calmer than I ever did alive, and I’m telling myself, Sylvain boy, you did alright. A comfortable, clean box. A fresh shirt. An eternity of peace and quiet.
-R.M. Vaughan

I believe in ghosts. Everyone does.
Ghosts can be a comfort, like wisdom – an adult truth children need to be sheltered from.
Ghosts hide your keys, turn off the fridge, and maybe, in the smarter households, jostle the china, but never kill.
To most people, a ghost cannot kill.
-R.M. Vaughan

Murder breaks some ghost code, a hierarchy of physicality that limits the transparent friend to teacup smashing or rocking chair rocking, but never knives.
-R.M. Vaughan

The dead skin was fever hot.
-R.M. Vaughan