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.