I have a Banshee fetish. All factual information I have gathered about these ghost broads opposes how I have actually come to imagine them.
There's a sexy, slightly dirty, woman strolling along an unpaved way (in say New Zealand or Ireland) wearing a white dress with the straps hanging off her shoulders. She's got long wild hair and there's an uncommon breeze that's light enough to be creepy but strong enough to move the Banshee's mane so her white hair swirls across, conceals her face. She has nice tits and green eyes. Trying to appreciate nature, the stars, the moon--maybe she's stoned--eventually she becomes hungry. Blam: guy cruises up on a horse or a Harley, she sticks out her bony thumb, jumps on the back of the animal / bike, and before they're traveling at a dangerous speed she slams his head backwards and kisses his neck with her teeth.
Esmerelda. That's what I've named this night-walking fiction of mine. I idolize her because she's tough, comfortable being a lone wanderer, self-serving, and she's working to save the world by tackling one of the most serious, yet largely un-discussed, problems of the 21st Century: Overpopulation.
BANSHEE
Don’t speak to me when
you know I’m traveling because
distance is the only love
you know from the other end
of that holey rotary
phone—when away, you
made me honest—
a pious masturbator.
But fuck the righteous—
you did—morning after phone
after next and again. I started night
walking during your waxy rehearsals,
electric wings—you were flying
on wires across phone
lines.
Don’t yell at me when
you hear I’ve done
the same—impressed your favorite
open color of painted mouth on
the neighbor’s pretense of
piety. Maybe I did it because
the dial tone reminded me
of that time in the train—car to our-
selves. Maybe.
Maybe I missed you. Maybe
I just missed digging
flesh from beneath my nails
over breakfast. Maybe the
neighbor felt the same in
my mouth.
