the spirit wroteafter the Civil War,in cloudy scriptlike you might expectfrom someone withouthands, the mediumsbusy with so many dead,collective pushinto the other world,all of us calling.Down by the riverI remembered sawdust,his guitar, two or threesongs, his hand palmup, showing me the placewhere his mother died,like a mirror he thoughtof his own death, and whenthe table turned,he appeared. We walkedaround a fallen tree,the woman in me stilldriving by. His dancewas the best part, I meanno one was dancing, menand women in nightoutfits. Even broken,cement to my thigh,I climbed the stairsand breathed the wayI did at fifteen, takingin the burning. One spiritpassed her arm througha chair, roses, like the oneshe carried to me sayinghe’d never sleep again.There’s red in the sky, redin the table, like winter,the shining garment that materialized.Oh dont keep calling?Oh dont stop?In another photograph,a spirit has written Difficult
to manifest present conditions
not suitableto manifest present conditionsnot suitable, and another, in tinyscript, la porte fermé—so hardto see it could be fume, thoughthe closed door is what I’ve staredat so long, when evena blind girl can see that’s smoke.
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