Robert Crisp
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.