The American Poetry Review

MEDITATIONS ON GHOSTS

believed, once, in Ouija boards, of standing in front of my own reflection mouthing —& how still I hesitate because I know words transfigure tongues as easily as brain, transfigure to spells cast without my consent—in anticipation of monsters who don’t resemble my cheek bones, my clavicle, my left ear lobe slightly tipping forward, who don’t live in motel rooms—someone says Bates & I wish myself Hitchcock not Perkins—in : a counting of three brown kids drawn inside a blueprint, blueprint of a 1950s motel drawn with charcoal so the pencil may turn at any moment to eraser. I believed, once, in a spirit here, then broken. I name this in my lungs with breath in

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