The prompt was, “Write a poem about webs.”
Spiders wait in corners
of intricate webs —
their trappings
lovely
by design.
Once, I thought,
“What a fool to be stuck,”
but now,
older
(and none the wiser, by any means),
I see their elaborations
and think myself a fly.
Scratch the line that burns me
like the arsonist who tried to silence my voice
with smoke.
I swallowed the smolder,
but the syllables turned to ash against my broken
teeth.
The world pleaded for silence, but I raised my voice.
The world asked for quiet,
and in exchange,
I gave it my voice sharpened to a blade.
Don’t ask for cotton when all you gave me were
scars.
Beware the silence you begged for –
it’s simply the calm before the storm.
In March of 2009, the poet Rachel McKibbens introduced the poetry community to the concept of the “ghost line”. McKibbens defines the ghost line as “an inspiring line or image that becomes the unseen first line of a poem”.
The poet Ollie Schminkey provided their readers with a poetry prompt on April 9, 2025.
The prompt is as follows:
Use a line of a lyric from a song you have been listening to as a ghost line.
Here are a few more “ghost line” poems.
i: rain
These shapes I see in the darkness all conform
to your figure
and your cologne is like petrichor but faint.
I think if I listen to the silence long enough,
I can hear you whisper my name.
(Don’t tell anyone –
they’d think I belong in bedlam.)
But, as I trace raindrops along my windows,
I remember scribbling in my Latin book,
Amantes sunt amuntes –
lovers are lunatics –
and it doesn’t take the taste of rain to know
the truth.
I’ll continue to watch the raindrops trickle down
and chase shadows in the dark,
but I won’t surrender to the madness
because this is love and every silent evening,
I whisper to see if I can hear your echo.
ii: changing seasons
Here we are, chasing these temporary highs
like nightcrawlers leaning close to their radios,
begging for a fix,
but in a sad state of panic,
you told me you thought your blood froze to ice
(and you said you didn’t want to self-destruct
to stay warm).
I offered you a cigarette,
but you shook your head and said,
“I don’t want a solution for my problems –
just someone who can commiserate.”
So, we went outside in autumn
and watched the leaves change colors for a while.
You told me,
“It’s nice to remember that even dying can be
beautiful
for some.”
iii: hiraeth
Every broken bone I never set right
aches on me
as though I have been falling asleep in airports.
I’m never where I want to be
because I swear, I don’t know where I want to be.
Is it homesickness, even if you don’t know
where your home is?
I traveled a thousand miles from here
just to end up back in this wasteland
and I booked a train ride
out of town
because a girl with straw-blonde hair
read from the Rider-Waite tarot deck,
telling me to leave this city behind.
(But everything hurts when I remember
the details.)
I watch it all like it’s a dream.
I pretend it’s not my life,
but that has to stop.
Everything hurts like an unexplained car crash,
but even though I’m a thousand miles away,
I’m the one behind the wheel.
(And is it homesickness,
even if you’re already home?)
You talk of your soul ossifying –
the soft parts hardening,
but I’m preoccupied with
pulling out the hems of reality,
ripping out the stitching.
I refuse to yield.
To be soft for too many years
means
to decay,
to become moss underfoot
& I refuse to become trampled.
They told me that the way you identify
lace is by its holes,
and I know now,
I never want to be recognized
by what I lack.
Instead,
I hunt for the parts of myself
that used to be consumed by the patriarchy
and men with hunger for eyes.
(The pieces of myself
that were consumed
because I swallowed my teeth
to make myself more digestible.)
But I don’t need a flashlight
or a search party —
I can be discovered quite easily.
I’m not the girl who I thought I was.
I’m the woman who refuses to surrender.
I forget my fight sometimes
(like the candle who neglected her flame),
but I am prepared for war.
I am no longer paraffin wax that pours down smoothly-
only to harden on your lungs.
I’m not the gentle pieces you stepped upon –
the dandelion you crushed & never asked
forgiveness of.
Pain is a razorblade skating down your throat.
(Are we monsters or are we martyrs?
Hide me in a closet or tie me to a tree &
you’ll see the true nature of the beast.)
A microphone amplified your voice,
so arenas could hear you shriek in anguish —
but no one heard the cry for help.
You splayed yourself open for dissection,
offered the world opportunity to see you
bare.
You clawed through your own midnight darkness
to provide a spotlight for the blind.
More dirt piled on you – who was digging your grave? – your screams muffled, the silence even louder.
When I wanted to scorch off my thumb prints &
erase my existence from the history books,
when I wanted to burn my diaries & abandon my name,
you were there.
(Are we monsters or are we martyrs?
Some of us are mere mortals,
but you were a savior beyond saving.)
You shouted, but no one could hear you
until it was too late.
If you swallowed that razorblade that waltzed
along your throat,
don’t bother telling me when you taste
the copper of blood.
Hide me in a closet or tie me to a tree.
You will see who I am & what makes a man
a man.
Forgive me.
I don’t know how to save you.
I can’t even save myself.
Isabelle Palerma 