Ghost Stories (to be read to her child, at night)
She was watching from the window
Arms out, hanging from the ledge
Reaching toward me—
Your uncle was still an infant—
And when she stepped inside
I saw that I could see
Right through her
That was the first time
We’d been living upstairs
From a funeral home
For a summer
It was too hot to go outside
It was too hot to stay in
I saw her again
The same position
Clutching air
In each arm, cradling space
Another night I woke to find
A man, bald and mustached
