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more arguments with ghosts

You Visit as a Bird, a Hat

 

I am dreaming or remembering.

In the backyard, a flaming hysterical cardinal (or your red cashmere cap) kneads my scalp with tiny sharp claws, as if to burrow inside.

You tell me your hair didn’t “dissolve” – you shaved it first.

And the restapled fabric of the brim fills the air with the sound of someone’s questions, and seizes my knuckle with a greedy, peanut-shaped beak.

You are making that face again but you don’t quite have a “face”. 

Knit circles in the shape of roses glued above the left ear, throat pulsing with melancholy whistles, a black riding cap slops about your skull, loose after chemo dissolved your hair.

I start to ask if this is the “ghost you” or the” real you,” then stop myself.

Sometimes I type, “you are I” when I mean something else.

Beside a two-dollar beret the pink of self-pity, a redwing blackbird lifts and swings into mist.

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They Don't Come To Me

Or I thought they don't come to me, but maybe I'm just not hearing them right. Thanks for reminding me to decode more carefully.