Alive

by ..

Shelagh Rowan-Legg

 

I closed my throat against my ghost
but it went down, regardless;
ghosts have strong hands

and long memories.
There is too much empty space

waiting to be filled with
the roughening fur of the elderly cat,
the smell of mom’s Bolognese sauce,

the booming tick of grandfather’s clock,
that first boy’s tongue, tinged with

banana popsicle and a bat-squeak
of sensuality; the first glimpse
swelling beneath my t-shirt.

I whispered in my mouth,
into my ghost’s hands,

Why now? This is too
much for these chasms,
too heavy for my slackening stride.

It murmured back, I need to know
how much aliveness you can bear.