It’s a little ways to Heaven
but the farthest place to travel—
out my window
through the alley
where you found me, collar broken;

there are mirrors in the attic
that you placed there to remind me
that a ghost can
haunt a dwelling
with a body and a heartbeat

well then maybe the horizon
stretches further than my bedroom,
past the street signs
and the shoreline
of the ocean, past the islands

where I thought I saw Orion,
on a hunt, perhaps, for something
irreplaceable
and priceless
he could take back to Poseidon

in the end he came up empty,
(there’s a lesson in there, somewhere)
which is why I
haunt the attic—
I never cared much for the sea.

There was a stretch of land down 49
that cut the Hori-
con in half,

I drove that road with windows rolled
down, breathing in the
earthen scents;

(and while I’d never
spotted her,
I was told the Great Blue Heron lived there)

the crickets
tuned their instruments
and played out a moonlit sonata,

while a symphony of scarlet lights
blinked in sync
like fireflies

that bathed the Marsh in
fleeting crimson, a pulsating
vermillion.

The windmills weren’t there before,
they all went up
some years ago,

and though the terraform’s not
terrible
(I suppose it’s better for the Earth)

the flashing scared
the birds away, and
I miss the calm of Yesterday.

Hilda died before her time—
just before
her honeymoon—
she’d spent it all,
every dime
she’d made in tips
on afternoons.

she wore her mother’s wedding dress—
dated lace,
a size too small—
but beautiful
nonetheless,
and full of grace,
she read her vows.

she hid her bruises with a sleeve—
finger marks
(his grip was strong)—
she promised him
she’d never leave;
(the little things
we keep in songs).  

he killed her with a forty-five—
had it hid
below the bed—
so what’s it mean
to be alive?
the only ones who know
are dead.

I could hold it in a breath,
bury it inside my chest,
watch the cilia react,
a current sent with each contact;
alas, I cannot keep it in
considering the broken skin;
with crimson ink, this razorblade’s
a fountain pen, I scrawl away:

“Hear me now, in sight of God,
first all is still, then comes the flood.”
The little blackbird hushed her song—
she could sense something was wrong—
pitchforked lightning bent the trees
and fireworks consumed the leaves
where my better angels hanged—
this, the Province of the ******.

If you were kept inside my chest,
you’d have slipped out with the rest,
while the vultures had their fill
picking piece by piece until
I’m left bone-bleached in the sun—
all the others turned to run;
but you were steadfast through it all,
from the spire to the fall.

The willow whispers from outside
where my history resides,
ghosts of angels hide beneath
the wilted branches of that tree—
I still catch glimpses of the scythe
from the corner of my eye,
but morning’s come, I cannot sleep here
in the shadow of the Reaper.