I’ve seen them

in a breeze or a rain drop

A slow shadow or stunning beam

of light through the trees landing

on my child’s eyelash creating God

in a prism

They’ve come mourning the souls who’ve

left me

They’ve come to check in

but not quite time yet…

not time

I have seen the signs

the great orange-eyed owl

the white deer at the edge of our forest almost

fused into the white snow

rolling through in a mist

There are no more souls to claim here

in this house

just me

They are on to me

They have tried in the past, beckoning me out onto

the long arch of our sandy beach

lulling me into the ocean

It would be an easy transition

the parting of my soul into soft waves

I’ve tried to die before, I know what they are

as they buzz around waiting for the ‘go ahead’

Grey ghostly trails of matter

sliding under the door

Phantoms chanting

in the four corners of my room

as I gimp around half human

half bat-shit

wondering why on earth

I’m still here






Damn girl.

Look at you.

Who made venom

so thick

course through your blood?


The cold flow

of winter

is in you.

Blue blood, blue eyes,

dead heart.


Too many footprints

over your grave—rough hands

on your body.


Bastard girl

with icy hands

and cold lips.


No one loves you.


Donna Dallas studied Creative Writing and Philosophy at NYU’s Gallatin School.  She has been published in Mud Fish, Nocturnal Lyric, The Café Review, The New York Quarterly and was lucky enough to study under William Packard.  She is recently found in 34th Parallel, Anti-Heroin Chic and The Opiate.