After Anne Sexton Some ghosts are my mothers neither angry nor kind their hair blooming from silk kerchiefs. Not queens, but ghosts who hum down the hall on their curved fins sad as seahorses. Not all ghosts are mothers. I've counted them as I walk the beach. Some are herons wearing the moonrise like lace. Not lonely, but ghostly. They stalk the low tide pools, flexing their brassy beaks, their eyes. But that isn't all. Some of my ghosts are planets. Not bright. Not young. Spiraling deep in the dusk of my body as saucers or moons pleased with their belts of colored dust & hailing no others. Copyright © 2017 Kiki Petrosino. Used with permission of the author. |
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