jill khoury

The Unseen Ghosts

After Edward Hirsch

Too shy or embarrassed to make themselves known,

they open doors without a sound, move vases

and frames a fraction off-center.  Fretting no less

than before, they wring intangible fingers. 

Life after death is not what they expected. 

They thought they’d have more courage, the power

to disrupt our crowded world.  They thought

we’d pay more attention, be easier to anger

or dismay.  Envious of those who are seen,

who bring comfort or demands, their hearts beat

behind invisible ribs: I am nothing but rage,

broken windows, whole sets of china smashed

into walls.  What I can’t touch I want to destroy—

chairs, peaches, your bitter skin.  All my life, I saved

what I didn’t say, let bile leach into my bones. 

Your body moves through mine.  You barely shiver. 

I say your name when the shower runs.  You reach

for a towel.  They never lose their faith in us,

their belief that what we fail to see is not our fault. 

They forgive far more than they should.

Hank Williams, holy Father,

your howling scales my screen door

like a cat.  I spike the floor

with bowls of milk and bourbon,

listen for claws clicking linoleum.

Instead: your locomotive cough,

steel guitar swallow.  Fingers fret

my hollow spaces, tender planes

of skull and hip.  How I long

to descend your banjo valley,

plumb your tambourine lake.

Snow climbed the hubcaps

of a rented Cadillac.  You huddled

under coats piled between

open windows, waxy skin so hot

no one noticed you were gone.

Thumbs press fever into my forehead,

under my eyes.  The radio

plays pieces of what we know.

Hank Williams, holy Father,

how I long to burn both with and for.

andrea scarpino