There’s only one ghost in this story,
and the story is complicated by the fact
that she’s still alive, despite trying
really hard not to be. She wears
a hospital gown carelessly left open
in the back. I have to look away
as she walks away from me
if I don’t want to feel ashamed.
I have to look away a lot.
This gives her just enough time
to hide in places where she can
jump out and say boo. She hides
between the family photo
and the frame, in the absence
of her number in my phone.
Sometimes she slips into my bed,
plumps the pillows, pulls the blanket
up to her chin, and siphons all
the sleep from the room, guzzling it
until she passes out and I tiptoe
around so as not to wake her.
She needs my sleep. She needs
my love, my attention, my worry
my worry my worry my worry
and I think if I withhold it
I’ll be safe, but it turns out
a ghost is a space you can’t fill
with anyone else.