I blushed when you died
and then checked the silver,
finding it all accounted for,
nothing filched by the maid
you never liked or trusted.
When I sought out your grave,
I found the headstone wavering
like a heat mirage–why is this
so hard for me when I have buried
you a thousand times in my dreams?
Later, I will steal onto a ship and sail
to some black land where I will make
a home and place a white candle
in the window for your restless spirit.
The days will rise and fall, rise and fall,
and I will remain unchanged, unfit, unwell,
memories of you playing in the empty
auditorium of my heart, echoing perfectly
against the well-worn, scratched walls.
Robert Crisp currently hides out in Savannah, GA, where he teaches and keeps strange hours and stranger company. He writes poetry as often as he can. Learn more at www.writingforghosts.com.