Julie Henson
It was trickier than with a Ouija.
Do you remember how we all lived in a yellow house built
on another yellow house?
I was on the front porch with tweezers, tick after tick
off the shaved-to-patches dog.
Stairs circled up & up. Inside there were
stainless steel bowls,
popcorn, macaroni paintings of sinking ships.
Your occasional Russian accent.
My obsession with clay.
You wearing the shoes of a dead man.
Forever another haunting. Yawn. Like a Victorian, unconjured
it was lace.
You with the letters that said God, baby,
the air conditioner broke again,
God, baby, it is so hot, I think only of you I think only of box fans.
Yes, things were screwed but whatever.
If we had avoided bridges. Bodies of water.
If we hadn’t sensed the spirit in the coffee.
The cardboard boxes filled with shadow & slow & blue. Those curtains.