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Ghost Story

1/23/2016

2 Comments

 

In   a moment the
            street lamps will  flick on        at once
and clouds will                        dim to
            swimming pools.
 
In here I slip
            under a thin lip
                        of         sleep.
 
Mica swirls      disperse
over the bodies            of them            who
 
glide
on their backs
in my brain’s                
            gray pools, sipping paper umbrella drinks.
They caress my hair
and sing me
            sailor’s lullabies.
 
When I move               in your
lamby arms,
you murmur
            soap-words
                                                 meetooooomeeeeetoooooometootoootoo
your mouth loose   
     
with trust
and slobber.
 
Under the darkened
mountain clouds
I, Mer-Queen, ascend
with my scepter
from a tower of shriveled
siren tails, ghosts of
other women
you have slept with.
I demand to know
if I’m the best! I feel
their sweat erupt
 
from your dreams’ hot hollows.          
 
            I sail my ship over the city’s
                        corridors of crumbling brick
 
       they call me to dinner
            they wash out my wounds with gauze
                        they shove me backward off tall jetties
                                they slice me up with splintered mirrors
                                            they take my bones and build hotels
   
other women you have slept with
go to Stop n Shop,
buy bags of rice,
            take showers.
 
in                     darkest marshes of sleep
neurons            tread    water
talk                  to each other
in         blackness.
 
Retinas flicker under their lids   
                                                like eels!
                        Where do we go
                        after we sleep?
I only know
the sky at the top of the sea
-- sheet light of morning
calls ghosts to scatter.
 
In Atlantis, even the deadness
 
breathes.
 
I wake sticky-lidded
            humming some shanty you sang
in the blue enclave
                        I am already forgetting.


​

Kathleen Radigan is a human, writer, and Rhode Island native. Currently an English major at Wesleyan University, her poetry can be seen in The Harpoon Review, PANK, Prick of the Spindle, and Constructions.  She loves comedy, dogs and  lox.  
2 Comments
Nicholas
2/10/2016 04:10:46 pm

I heard this on the radio today. I really enjoyed the poems and I am happy you mentioned that this one was published so that I could find out who the author was. Thank you for the poetry!!

Reply
Matte Blk link
4/3/2022 04:33:53 pm

Heads-up, girl:
Take your first finger and hold
it close to your indelible thumb;
the spaceNbetween is how long
our lives are - then comes eternity:
Seventh-Heaven or Abyss o'Misery
(yes, dear, Purgatory is true as
the Son Shining upon humanity).
○♡○♡○♡○♡○♡○♡○♡○♡○♡○♡○
And who decides which realm?
WEE do! Ourselves! And our eyes!
...according to the deeds WEE have
accomplished in our WEE lifetime!
☆☆☆ nrg2xtc.blogspot.com ☆☆☆
I'm a true, Near Death Experiencer.
---> God Bless You.
---> I'll pray for you.
---> God ain't a religion;
God's a relationship.

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