there is a ghost for each day you walk out of alive. i was born
on a saturday. my first sunday saw my mother praying i’d only know this
day & its chiming of arms. rings of a church bell are too much for a child. here
i sit an avocado’s half-life later dreaming of a different birth. mother, i thought
i heard a choir singing, but it was my birthday crying on the front lawn.
it echoed itself so loud i couldn’t tell what christmas ‘96 was saying to me.
christmas ‘99 shouted your brother is alive, act like it. was i wearing a sweater
when i picked up the knife? tuesday, was it warm? mother, i know jesus wept.
jesus must be a monday. friday is no good to me. mother, do you remember
the one in march you mentioned Anthony might not walk again? mother, should i
thank god for the weekend? mother, Anthony died on a sunday. how holy is that
sunday’s ghost? jesus is crying on a wednesday & i can hear tonight scratching
at the window. mother, if i birth myself again, can i still be yours? mother, when
will i hear from saturday again? halloween ‘03 is the least of my worries. i’m afraid
halloween ‘18 made a lonely beast of me & hovered over the stairs before i could
take inventory of the people who love me. i’m afraid peoples’ i love you’s have become ghosts
too. do you hear that? it sounds like i went to church on a thursday
& the bells haven’t moved on.