I suppose it’s best to
speak of her now;
her name only summons
ghosts and thoughts
of a woman long past.

Her name is like hands that
trace the globe of my mind
from the my brain—a small city,
public university, museums, a relic
of a war dividing country—

to her heart—a large city, the
rainiest in the country, or so they say
where we mutually met in the middle;
it was love, or at fifteen springs, I thought.

This map to her now only summons
ghosts and thoughts
of a woman long past.

I follow them through
the thruways of memories
of all she touched with her
human condition and hope that
the map leads me back to her.

It leads me to our
phone calls, where I’d sit on
the deck in just pants and drink
and she’d stand outside on her balcony
and we’d burn the mental incense of a dream
forever never coming to pass.

I suppose it’s best to
speak of her now;
her name only summons
ghosts and thoughts
of a woman long past.

The ghosts of long-lost
proclamations of love
haunt my mind.  It’s
easier for me to believe
that she never did mean it,
but at three in the morning,
I’m fond of sitting on the deck and drinking

And I burn the mental incense of a dream
never coming to pass.
And I confess none of this
as she is a ghost with only a map
but my fair Rachael, she haunts me.

It’s no longer safe
to speak her name;
it’s summoned ghosts
and thoughts
of a woman long past.