Ghost Ship

I feel my feet on the ground. They are my feet in goodwill shoes, in fresh white socks. I push down, feeling closer to you.

As our birth month approaches, I grow older then you ever imagined. Wish you had a grave I could toss myself on. Leery of convention. No way to grieve suicide without anger. I settle for a candle de la virgin and daily morning prayers for your rocky soul.

I remember my feet in my shoes, my hands on my lap, they are my feet, they are my wiggling toes. They are my fingers and nails, painted grey today. My stiff joints and solo prints. I couldn’t stop you.

You got out first and warn me away when I come too close to your wake. Your wind driven ripple’s rock me slowly back to a more forgiving shore. I see your ship, no longer adrift, as you wave from the stern and sail slow. Engulfed in fog. Waiting for the next time I need your skeletons misty counsel.


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