Just Bring Yourselves
One after another, the dead
slip into my living room and hover
like they walked into the wrong party.
I worry I’m being a bad host
so I bring out a cheese plate. When it gets late,
my ghost friend pipes up.
Why did you grieve like that –
like an animal shedding its skin?
My grandpa takes off his sunhat. I’m sorry –
I waited and waited
for your voice in the dirt.
Finally, my dad emerges
from the kitchen, where he’s fixed the leaky fridge.
We are wearing the same outfit,
shoulders hunched like two identical
apes. Come on, he tells me,
points to an empty seat
and teaches me how to play bridge.