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The Former Ghost
In the kitchen she sits on a three-legged stool.
She died in the living room,
her heart burst, and out flew
all the skills of her hands.
Now she cooks the twilight between the days,
the dried fruits of yester-years.
I watch her thoughts take shape,
how they sway to the music of Glen Miller,
another memory she gave this space to.
These words are partly hers,
the flavors are mixed. I pay a rent
as interlocutor.
Room corners are still planted
by her broad-leaved thumbs.
I water the old ferns as if I were
the curator of her old friends.
Kitchen cups rattle on their hooks,
chipped china chimes upon moonlight jingles.
In life we never did meet, but at night
she polishes my eyes.
Spits on a yellow duster and gently wipes
until something shines in me, and I know her
and she knows me.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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