Ghost (30 April 2011)

One day, you will kill me.

I have borne your ghost through ten winters,
listened to its faint scrapings,
smiled when your shadow
skittered across the floor.
One day, you will finally kill me.

It has always been this way:
fighting for a chance to live with you
smothering me with giant hands.
Why should it be otherwise?

I have grown accustomed to your woo-ing
and knocking on the walls.
I matched my decor to your shrouds.
We know you don't belong here.
One day, I shall be rid of you,

and it will kill me.

In the Shower (9.27.06)

this morning, I watched
a mosquito
try to suck the life
from a white ceramic tile.
Oh, feisty girl,
I, too, get angry
when the impossible
doesn’t happen.