A Ghost Scene
The disco ball equals the circumference of a womb,
my amniotic sac sagging with wet glitter
and the dog, the dead dog,
a ghost I have seen,
a scene like sparks, like
puckered lipstick stains
straining their webbed lock-jaws
up and down my thinly veiled spinal
cord,

the ghost
nostalgic, the ghost
is a fan of forlorn poets
and the air when it is heavy
with snow, and he whispered
don't say

a
word

as though speech were quixotic;
a life form, a dead thing, pretty
in your hands, regurgitated in
freighting verse, in an uneaten
slab of undercooked meat,

and the dead
dog, a ghost wide
eyed and frantic on the side of the road
in my mind, jumping into
chaotic spurts of time, the
roadway clear but for us
traveling in the opposite direction
and the children stand
stark still like corn stalks,
fingers cold and bending inward,

the animal
lifted, a weight
I can feel although I never
touched it,
the wheel barrel beside
the road,

the ghost, seen
in the grey afternoon
with the sour
cheese and ham of
my breath, your hand
locked onto mine,

the whole drive
home; the whole of it,

the scene.