What ghosts glide through
these sleeping walls on Linden?
Ghosts of our mothers’ fear,
our fathers’ never good enough.
You and me, refusing it all amid dreams,
languid breath dancing intertwined, then
slowly, what light! Tiptoeing, grey, cool,
cascades over lover’s shapes under
               blankets atop blankets
knitted by hands that are now the earth.
The kitten in the wooden box on my dresser,
transformed to ashes and
               missing you,
purrs among the scent of roses and amber,
perfume bottles laced with dead skin.
A promise alive in a grandmother’s
abandoned wedding ring whispers
I still love you, in the 3 a.m. hush of winter.
A crumpled sock here, your favorite jeans
live on the back of the saffron chair
that has felt how many years
of woolen sweaters.
               Nearby, your guitar in its straw hat
serenades the empty suitcase longing to be filled,
longing for the blast of a train horn,
the blur of naked ash trees,
pockmarked road signs and
               so much orange sky.