Pre-Ghost Jacqueline

pour mon fantôme

My grandmother moves to hospice: untreatable infection. For the last eighteen
months, they have said she would pass away any day now. She lives

past her deadline out of spite, an unusual sense of humor, but even she
can only dodge so many times before her string is plucked. We know this.

The waiting room is a morning bog, all greens and greys. My mom plays music
as someone dies next door; we hear the wheels as they roll the corpse to a hallway.

We are conglomerates of contradictions. My grandmother was a good grandmother,
but a truly terrible mother. Nobody would argue this. My grandmother was an orphan,

raised her two brothers only to watch them die young, early Alzheimer’s,
then a work accident. My grandmother married a Hollywood-lookin’ man

who played games at every casino and with people’s lives; she didn’t
have the internet. Even smart girls can’t outwit death, who pruned

our family tree relentlessly. She must’ve been fearful that she would bury her children
or grandchildren too. How many ghosts haunted her? I never asked.

I imagine her enjoying this like she enjoyed full sun and hands immersed in soil.
I assure her still body, we will bury you first. You will have someone to haunt.

Author of the article

Emily M Goldsmith (they/them) is a queer Louisiana Creole poet originally from Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Emily received their MFA in Poetry from the University of Kentucky and their PhD in English and Creative Writing from the University of Southern Mississippi. A Pushcart-nominated poet, their creative work can be found in or forthcoming from Gnashing Teeth Publishing, Moist Poetry Journal, Zaum, The Penn Review, La Creole Journal, Fine Print Press, Eucalyptus Lit, and elsewhere.