My Chance
High coffered ceilings,
an odd filtered light,
mote constellations adrift,
rooms enfilade...
In the room at the far end
— the kitchen, it was —
I met my dead grandmother,
her crooked corpse
bothering a hot stove,
boiling up a pot of her
awful, brown, sticky soup.
She turned to me, as if to ask,
“Do you want a bowl?”
Startled, I turned to leave
(She was a ghost, after all...).
Her boney hand,
still holding a soup ladle,
brushed my right shoulder.
I turned. She whispered,
“You had your chance.”
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