By Richard LeDue
Emptied of Desire
The dark circles under my eyes are hallow, the pillow a sponge for my sweat, blankets too easily pulled away in the middle of the night, and the dream journal from my youth full of crooked words, describing eyelids that dared to take shape among the space between stars, yet I hid from the moon because it meant things to do with apologies for brushing hands or staring at a stranger, who looked like a time travelling lost lover, only for me to accept the years empty in one direction towards graves, quiet as beds.
Over Our Shoulders
We all should welcome death with kitchen table place mats, and offer every condiment, but warn of spilling salt because superstitions live longer than most, and to those who believe I'm lying, I dare them to break a mirror, or walk under a ladder.
A naked Winston Churchill making Abraham Lincoln's ghost smirk reminds me how unhaunted our lives can be: not answering the phone while driving, saying “No, thank you” to the second beer, complaining about dental floss, smiling at the sun (as if it had a mouth), and licking the icing from a knife after refusing a piece of cake because the doctor upped your diabetic medication- not all ghost stories need a death, but we like to pretend they do.