ISSUE 2
 

Natalie Ezelle

​

looking for ghosts: 2007

 

when the moon hangs brightly, bone-white

my grandpa slides the glass door wide. wind

 

in chimes—wind in chimes—we sneak outside

to look for ghosts. now don’t be fooled, he whispers,

 

them ghosts are good at hiding. then, he lowers

his lips and blows—his whistle a rope pulled

 

tighter, taut—four fingers on my shoulder,

white. he lost his fifth inside a foxhole.

 

we gotta outsmart ’em now. let’s go long.

 

i nod—the back gate groans—opens

to a field of ticking—ribbons in me turn

 

to knots, i drop, my knees scraping earth,

its pulsing—breathing—then i see it—

 

a bird. the head slacked. the eyes gone

black like marbles. grandpa, is it—?   

 

and then his eyes went distant­, like he ate

a sad song, like blue was pooling in him.

 

he takes a cigarette, lights the head on fire.

mhm, dead. looks like someone nabbed the sucker.

 

—the cricketing louder. 

my grandpa’s embers burning brighter, brighter.