the night I sat on the balcony
watching the moon cross the sky
Jamie’s ghost touched everything in the apartment
turned my pairs of shoes at perpendicular angles
propped up the sheep brain dissection kit
scooted out my desk chair
it was so subtle
I could have done it myself
what's the difference between
hallucination and metaphor
seeing the story over the story
the world behind the world
I don't want to say too much
but something I can tell you now;
it's a lie
that nothing rhymes with orange
the buddha quality
of a stuffed animal
how two dots and a line
make a gracious face
I was sure he was in my bathroom
staring at that tum on the tile floor
and I realized how trauma
is like schrodinger's cat
the keloided narratives that stay fucked up
for as long as the door is closed
I keep seeing a soft sky full of tiny letters
like alphabet soup
and the afterimage of a cool blue fairy
pepper's ghost
and there's something extra
we're elaborating on now
about washer women
gossips and yentas
about twins, togetherness
about the tree and the stone
