Ghost Story
The expanse of an endless field
our feet atop the dashboard
of your car that stalled out last fall—
back when we both were breathing
so hard and so often,
your chambers a pantomime, heart
like honeycomb filling in
You told me between other lies
that ghosts are grateful
to be seen, they accept what we endure,
so nonplussed by our pimpled, grieving selves
soft and unsexed, that they are thrilled
to answer our calls to move
something: stir a breeze,
knock a frame off the wall
Once, I whispered, Prove It until
I didn’t have to ask again
The human truth of it
is that we are too bossy
and not wild enough, yet
Still, you were the dead talking
before you ever foretold it
Alligator Alley
Between the two-lane tollway
which connects each coast
are the ruins of girlhood
Bridges and culverts
where the living and the dead both
work on their tans and bruises
You were a nature poem:
waterlogged, trying
not to do anything stupid
You got me used to the blood
and dreaming of panthers, our debris
cleared off the roadway by waterway
Where else would someone like you
hail from, love it or leave
it—you sure would
Town Built of Wood
Having rushed river road bound for Baton Rouge,
impressive red stick, only to find her fires under control
They made use of trucks & men that fought disaster, gilded anew
feathered & flowered, their slow crawl a reprieve from worry
It taught us what else tractors could hold & what sirens signaled.
We didn’t think about what had happened to the girls until later.
Rhienna Renée Guedry (she/they) is a writer, illustrator, and producer whose favorite geographic locations all have something to do with their proximity to water. A two-time Pushcart Prize nominee and 2022 Tin House Workshop alum, her work has appeared in Muzzle, Maudlin House, Gigantic Sequins, and elsewhere. Her debut chapbook Root Rot is available from Cooper Dillon Books. Rhienna is currently working on her first novel. Find out more about her projects at rhienna.com.
