Ghosts

Inside the house there are ghosts gnashing their teeth,

whispering into the baby monitor.

At the other end of the house I freeze

hear the voices amid crackles of static,

stop folding towels.

She is the final holdout,

but the bread has crossed over to our side.

 

Going With Ghosts

Ghoulish women crowd dark corners.

Light glistens on my breath.

There is an evil menagerie beyond the gate.

I am dancing motionless.

There are many cathedrals waiting

to be unearthed in my garden.

 

I want to remember exhaustion

Sex,

Monday mornings,

Gratitude.

I hate Complacency

and the way he makes everything pale

and organized.

 

I’m packed and ready

to follow the ghosts and learn

what they know,

but I dread the low opacity

the cold

being unchallenged

and unchanging