POETRY

Empty

There is only the moon embalmed in phosphorus — there is only a crow in a tree — make notes — Sylvia Plath

Photo by Daniel Shapiro on Unsplash

Ghosts are everywhere djinns from the smokeless fire pulses of her heart stopped in a knot of wraiths chattering mixing and melding in this invisible air oddest number is one, moments linger in the empty chair talking to a lady who’s no longer there, odd that even two is only ever odd one + odd one associations carry on until the wood rots and there are no trees and no ice and no air and nobody there…

only the hallowed spirits of times passed only the solid citizens, who thought they would outlast plastic, proved to be eminently biodegradable like that empty chair now melded like the sitter into the damp, brown clay around which silent ghosts coagulate and pray.

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