Thursday Poem

The muses are ghosts, and sometimes
they come uninvited.
― Stephen King

On Ghosts

Blame it on the quartz.
Call it coffin candle,

foolish fire.  A surgery
in Gettysburgh beckons:

Limbs stacked as ricks
at a window.

Call it the staring past.
Call it schism.

Burn the wedding dress.
Call it Chinese grievance.

In Poland, ignus faatua,
“traveller’s lights,” believed

to be spirits of dead
mapmakers.  Eat your cabbage

or else they’ll draw “here”
out of sight

by Lea Graham
from This End of the World: Notes to Robert Kroetsch
Apt. 9 Press, 2016; also published in