where the writers are
not so close, you stupid ghost

 

Dress Rehearsal – Christine Hamm

 

 

Someone calling, Mira, Mira, not so close.

A white lake. Something frozen, stepping

on something frozen and uneven. The seagulls

clatter, pull the clouds into filaments. The moon,

a lopsided mouth, enters your body and you

drown again. Last time I held you, your breath

like wet dishrags and worms. A house hidden

under a painted sheet. The fire doesn't help you.

In that tank top with the ducks across, holding

yourself, shivering, not looking at me. The lake

jumps up and away. Birches are falling around

your library: snow falls, but no one listens.

You hum as you stomp your naked feet. The fire

doesn't help. You say your house is burning,

I say mine is sinking, even now.