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
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.