Self-Portrait as a Scarecrow
Dawn the brighter mouth. Blue-brown
crucifix in patchwork. Here, faces
flower by the thousands, populate the
coppered washed days, the nothing-night,
each pistil parallel to its purpose. I stare
the evening soft, coax the oil out of
midnight’s lamp. Hours rot away
in regalia. The loud dark comes quickly:
Crows christen themselves in my sight
unafraid. Little thieves rustle underfoot.
Now and then my harvest gleams gold
with laughter. Now and always, I am
helpless, holding a lantern
like a breath. How this town
mocks the memory of another town
the way spit sticks to the air, searching
for a moment of permanence: sound
to the soles of your feet. A freshly bobbed
apple between a lover’s teeth, taking home
first prize at the county fair. For once,
for me? I picture, still, the cider you spilled
on the woodman’s axe, the pumpkin bloomed
just wrong, moon through rain reeking
of bad wine, every leaf undressed by wind
wet with white sheets, every spirit
unambiguous. There, something with wings
watching us from the hayloft. Colors
most cruel at our world’s end—turn
them upside-down. Tangled. I wish
my body into warp and want and
morning, mourning, morning.
Author’s note on this POSSESSION-themed poem:
I've always loved autumn the most of all the seasons; it's when I feel my every step watched by forces lurking beyond the field, in the forests and hills that paraded around my fondest childhood memories. A scarecrow is a staple in the landscape of fall, possessed by the gazes of others who enter its purview liminally, before they leave and the scarecrow once again possesses nothing but an eye on time. I wrote this poem listening to the Over the Garden Wall soundtrack, thinking of cinnamon and apple cider and the pumpkins carved in all my years' Halloweens and Samhains. Possession can be thought of as an intrusive act. Here, it's greedy and wanting, walloping. To be possessed by something is to know it so unbearably it becomes you. What is a scarecrow's deepest want? How does it necessarily differ from mine? A scarecrow sees all but can do nothing. Of course its want must be monstrous.
Stephanie Chang (she/they) is a Brooklyn-based writer, art historian, and witch. A 2025 Lambda Literary Fellow, her work appears or is forthcoming in The Rumpus, Adroit Journal, Kenyon Review, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, and Sixth Finch, among others. She has a chapbook forthcoming from Palette Poetry in early 2026.