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THE GHOST SPEAKS/I SPEAK
Find me under a porch, under a fickle sun, under
a mantle replete with photographs your father is
missing from. I am in the layered rot of your onion,
in your garage gathering dead bees. I blink in
perpetuity. My embodiment: paid in full.
(If only I had a spill kit to keep you in, to keep you
from pouring out. Imagine: no bile, no brine,
no oil blooming in no ocean. No history, no war,
no blood singing in cool night air. My grandmother
holds no knife in no tall wheat.)
I am listening from every wall. I won’t keep the blood
out; I can’t promise you that. You must believe me:
I am everywhere. Wear me like heavy wool. Let me spill
like the edge of a dream strung with moths, missing light.
