Alicia Baker
Ghost Baby
Like the branching ache of a broken tooth
the memory expands. It has weight.
It leaps from its hunch on the floor
to encase my tired hip, hauls on my arm, straining
taut muscle strings -
cool breaths on my cheek.
No photograph has that smell
or that wrench on the shoulders.
But you’re gone with that physical crush
on my rib-cage and heart;
that baby blond hair
kept in an envelope.
Do you haunt the house we have left;
tumble brick rainbows down their stairs?
Although you’re not dead, go back
to your bed in the past.
Page(s) 28
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- Thumbscrew
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