There’s a girl in this house who’s in love with a ghost

She can be me if you want. The ghost can mean something.

OK, let’s say she’s me. Let the ghost be what you like.

Tiny hills of sand keep appearing in the driveway.

I was thinking about ghosts, and now I can’t stop thinking

about ants under the house, in my kitchen, my bed.

I pour boiling water on the tunnels where they fumble

half-blind but they come back, haunted by their own

tiny ghosts. They recognize one another by smell.

I once smelled a boy on my hands hours after

leaving him. I put my hands in the back of his jacket,

woke up with the ghost of him on my fingers.

The ghosts wake the girl up, weights pressing into her

empty bed. Someday, she will die too. The house will be full

of ghosts, and the ants will keep going on with their small lives.


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