My dead brother spreads a layer of crushed shells
around the red geraniums where our mother’s
mother has bent to tidy them for decades.

Here are the lot of them:
my grandmother with her wig a little skewed,
my mother, gin rummy cards flush in hand
sipping Harvey’s Bristol Cream, cigarette hanging
as she laughs, and my brother—no noose.

I call for each shadow to come inside with me,
offer them milky tea with honey. Sit yourselves.
Hold down these empty overstuffed chairs.

In the ancient ox-blood distance,
an old woman leaves her Neolithic tomb.
She’s lit the bonfires of autumn’s harvest.
To her I say, Come. Come drink with us.

The moon bruises the garden geraniums carmine
on this scarlet night of December roses.
Full reappearance. Moon, enter my chamber.
I’ll call you my unborn sister.
Bring my third child who never formed.

And although wind drifts reroute the forest owl,
my window’s open. Come to me, Haunts.
Soft rain, you’re welcome, too. The holy well is filling.
Carry your raindrop messages from the ghosts
of clouds. Love letters found. I’m not alone now.