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.