after Louise Erdrich

what are we	but
star-fucked cell dust
balancing on an imaginary line	
between life	&	death.

h a u n t e d
	by homes with withered roots;
wasp-infested tree houses because we left our apple		cores
to soften in the heat of summer
	to sweeten 	& 	ferment.

i have a ghost
occupying my bathroom
&	on occasion	she makes her presence known.

there are times 	when I wish it were my father
haunting me—
	but I am grateful for my ghost(s)

& it is a rare comfort to know my father is not one.

what will become of us—		the haunted
after summers of rotted fruit?
				 

			nothing but amygdalin-laced seeds.