Ghosts

Originally written Sun., Nov. 8, 2009 / Revisited Mon., Nov. 30, 2009


There are no ghosts here.

Your brother is not reassuring you from colder Kansas,
where he relinquished his anguish among clothes dangling like meat,
looped his belt around his neck, swallowed, and kicked his chair
out of his closet, involuntarily hiccuped
for his soul back.
His throat purpled and swelled and he left you all
alone. Breathing
cigarettes, reasoning,
hungry every few hours.

My grandfather, who quietly exhaled
his natural completion, has not walked here
from sunny California to give me a warm, bony-armed squeeze,
remind me I'm \the prettiest girl in Texas\
and tell me
it didn't hurt.
Or if it did, that he's okay.

There are no ghosts here, no long-legged apparitions
watching us sleep like unnerving guardians
making sure we wake up
like we should.

Disconnected, we are alone.