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.