The emphasis is more on funny than scary in this slim collection, though a few individual poems may give pause. Stella Michel’s mummy mourns the waste of good ingredients: “Fruit bat wings with Hollandaise, / eyeballs in a demi-glaze” don’t do much good for a monster with no stomach. Edna Cabcabin Moran’s zombie kid tries to catch a baseball, but the impact takes his hand off with the mitt. But in “The Witching Hour,” by Angela McMullen, an unnamed protagonist lies sleepless, hoping to survive till morning, and Wynkoop’s wishing well delivers an “eyeless beast with jagged teeth... / To search for frightened children with its heightened sense of smell.” Co-anthologist Judd is also well-represented here, with a bat-shaped concrete poem among others. While there are chills and chuckles both among these verses, they are mild ones—an additional purchase. (Poetry. 8-12)
