Poems for the victims of Ted Bundy by Cat Dixon

Punk Noir Magazine


Take the throat with its song—

the song that travels across fresh snow—

in your hand. Feel the pulse,

a tiny metronome in the skin. 

Play the melody in the wind—

wind chimes at back doors,

whispers reserved for libraries

and study halls. Face the wind 

and shoot down the mountain. 

It’s snowing again, and the alarm

cries its morning jingle. Good 

morning on this gray day.

Good morning to the vibrant

choir. Morning on this mountain. 


The flash of a face at the window

distracts the eye. The snap 

of a shoe against the floor echoes. 

Perhaps the book lends itself 

to these figments. Who at a late hour

hasn’t let her light burn after filling

up on lovers and monsters? 

Who doesn’t float on the waves

of the typed page? The man 

in the next room speaks—

his dreams require a response—

and his voice carries. His prayer

begs retreat. His bed creaks. Metal 

cracks teeth and bone, but the crunch

and pinch only last a moment.

Why do men carry closed doors

in their deep voices? Why are 

such soft pleas roars? Why

are survivors ignored? 


The cigarette’s cherry lantern 

sparked and shadows hid

the car, the snarl, the crowbar. 

In a hurry, her vision blurry, 

she left the library—this route

only required minutes,

not hours. In her building,

the laundry finished  

its spin, the contact lenses

soaked in their solution, 

the dental floss spooled

around her toothbrush 

in the medicine cabinet, 

the film paused on its opening

title, and her pure heart,

not there, but somewhere,



She’s a quarter of a mile down a side road.

Lord knows what the little creatures 

would’ve done. Can you hear that?

Her head’s severed and taken like a gift

up a rocky hillside. He’s breaking out 

of a fever. He’s waking up to this 

discovery. She’s up in the mountains. 

Up in the Cascades. The body 

count lower than expected—

ashes in a fireplace, buried 

skulls in the grove of evergreens,

the chain link fence catching thrown

shoes, blouses, and handcuffs.

What’s discussed here is the priority. 

Unidentified pieces pieced together,

a puzzle, for someone to solve. 

Can you hear that? The case they have

is weak. This will take years and years. 

Erasure poem SOURCE: Transcripts of Stephen G Michaud and Hugh Aynesworth’s interviews with serial killer Ted Bundy. 

Bio: Cat Dixon is the author of Eva and Too Heavy to Carry (Stephen F. Austin University Press, 2016, 2014) and the chapbook, Table for Two (Poet’s Haven, 2019). Recent poems have appeared in LandLockedAnti-Heroin Chic, and Abyss & Apex. She is a poetry editor at The Good Life Review.