after Anne Sexton
Some ghosts are old lovers,
older now than when he stepped on
your heart, leaving a red smear
on your 20s. He tries to float but can’t
quite, looks past you from his spot
on the sidelines.
Not all ghosts are men—
there’s your mother:
skimming the aisles of the store
next to you and your cart— points
out that you’re overdue for new towels.
She waves her translucent purse
like a flag when it’s time to pay.
But that isn’t all.
Some ghosts were never yours
to begin with. They blow past
your front windows on their way
to the elementary school
one block over, eager to beat
the morning bell.
