Poem With A Ghost Town
I am the town that everyone left
their ghost in. I am the door that closes
by itself from the faintest trace
of someone’s anger, a wind that
can make a room shake—a thunderclap.
I’ve been captive there. Where we pick the rust
off old cars, and where we kissed
or unzipped in junkyards. Now I drive
with death on the passenger side.
A revenant finishing all my sentences.
The child I was in the backseat listening
to coarse radio static— Up front, grownups
testing the brakes, words flung toxic as gasoline.
The Chicago air, bitter cold. My ghosts smelled
like nicotine and Doublemint: The twin girls drilled
on the billboard selling gum, with teeth to smile away
our fear and pain. The car swerved.
We turned three times on the Dan Ryan.
Winter offered its spare room. My dad’s Bonneville
continued as if nothing happened. My blue dress,
flew out the car window—I watched it get smaller.
I was the ghost that everyone left their town in.
