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Ghosts almost never harangue their killers. It's those who can actually feel guilt and shame who draw a ghost from hiding, regardless of whether they had anything to do with the death that spawned the haunting.
—Aaron Friedrich, These Bloody Filaments


alley behind our house

car parked against the fence, a beat up four-door compact
dead teen folded on the tiny back seat

all his blood emigrated through the new doors
moved out into the upholstery

cop had a laugh, said the boy came up short
owed someone meaner, had to pay exact change
no pennies left for his eyes

sure we didn't hear nothing?
struggle must've gone on for a while
he could've called for help

guy at our church owns a jewelry store
he grins around his reading glasses
they catch the one who did it, that's two thugs gone, he says

they towed that car off weeks ago
but the boy, he doesn't know

we've seen him draped on our chain-link gate
like he tried to climb over and couldn't make it
flimsy as the paper that shared his death
in four short paragraphs

no moon, nothing's waving
when we peek through the blinds
just a piece of trash tortured by the wind
so it looks like a face




Mike Allen is president of the Science Fiction Poetry Association and editor of the speculative poetry journal Mythic Delirium. With Roger Dutcher, Mike is also editor of The Alchemy of Stars: Rhysling Award Winners Showcase, which for the first time collects the Rhysling Award-winning poems from 1978 to 2004 in one volume. His newest poetry collection, Disturbing Muses, is out from Prime Books, with a second collection, Strange Wisdoms of the Dead, soon to follow. Mike's poems can also be found in Nebula Awards Showcase 2005, both editions of The 2005 Rhysling Anthology, and the Strange Horizons archives.
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2 Mar 2026

Strange Horizons
Strange Horizons invites non-fiction submissions for our March 30 special issue on “Fungi in SFF.”
Once I’ve finished writing, I will fold this letter up and tuck it into the Tristram you kindly loaned me (may it be our Galeotto … ). I’ll knock on your door, at which point I will most likely encounter a puzzled maidservant, who will ask who in the world I am, and I will explain that I am returning a book you were kind enough to bestow on me (generous creature that you are and clearly down-on-their-luck weatherworn would-be poet that I am).
the trees were softening, their bark for the hungry to scrape and scrape and spread it on whatever bread they could beg or bake
i must warn you before all else / before you poke and prod
Paul Kincaid and Dawn Macdonald join Dan Hartland to discuss style.
Strange Horizons
2 Mar 2026
Strange Horizons invites non-fiction submissions for our March 30 special issue on “Fungi in SFF.”
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