The Ghost: The Man
By Shaylah Kloska
The Ghost:
When he was a man, he was filled with swamp water.
Oh, the water pooling in his eyes. Oh, his fingers—
Bellies full of blood.
Bled me dry, his watered heart.
Always swallowing; the feeling of drowning.
The Man:
He had the songs selected for his funeral.
I unstitch the burs from the fabric and swallow them.
Moss growing in my belly is a child-body.
I claim the songs again.
Mine: by unstitching his entire closet.
The Ghost:
And because the house banked the swamp,
The table mildewed and the bed sank.
His was the sunken
Damp side of the sofa. Or,
Choose to remember it this way:
The soft side of his face in the wet hanging light.
The Man:
Disappears like a ghost.
Oh. The sinking pit of regret.
Oh. The fear of dry June. Arid sleep and lips.
Spit: the burrs from my mouth.
Shaylah Kloska lives in Logan Square in Chicago, Illinois. Her prose has appeared in The Pedestal Magazine. She plays and sings in two bands, Buffalo Heart and Chaperone.
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