Ghost Song Montage
The dog, always underfoot. And the boys’
questions half-staff flags, women
on TV crying, pipes that bang under
the sink. I’ve killed the same mouse
half a dozen times. It keeps coming back.
It’s no excuse, but I believe in love
like that, a backhoe’s metal teeth.
A shirt hangs on the line by a single pin.
One arm raised, it awaits permission
I’m unable to give. And who can? Scientists try,
graft strain to strain, but for the hybrid
to manifest, we must drop to our knees.
What we ask: Pull the alarm. Sweep the city
for explosive devices. Clear the theatre.
Giant faces flicker long after this
interruption, continue conversations
while we shuffle around outside, hope
not to get rained on. So inconvenient,
appetite, a ghost we’re eager to expel. Yellow
machines gnaw at the empty lot. It shakes.
And fog makes streets a crawlspace the blurred
outlines of lovers duck through, mourning so
different from morning, but we know both
and they mean you can’t stay.
CAROLEE BENNETT lives in Upstate New York, where – after a local, annual poetry competition – she has fun saying she has been the “almost” poet laureate of Smitty’s Tavern. She has an MFA from Ashland University in Ohio and works full-time as a writer in social media marketing. She manages the Twitter account for the Tupelo 30/30 writing project and recently joined the reviews team at The American Poetry Journal.
READ AND LISTEN
Issue 12 #CompanionPlaylist