I Died this past weekend. Sometime
between my head cradled on the toilet
& blacking-in at 6am, I crossed over.
I wish I hadn’t been that drunk ghost
so hungry for the world I kept turning
myself inside out. I wish I walked
through the kitchen & reveled as
everything turned, wilted at my passing.
I wish I went to the fire escape & slipped
my silhouette over some unsuspecting lady,
pressed my tongue onto hers, stole her name.
I wish I came to you, showed you
my newest betrayal & we could torment
those unfortunates out & Alive
on a night like this.
But instead I Died & stumbled
into the air vent, pouring a sad
hiccupping through the building.
The ghost from next door came to me,
the one who died in the spring, his body
left in the armchair decomposing 2 months.
He said, I died at 53, a drug addict
with no family. Yet here I am, still
waiting, still alone. Sometimes
I visit new tenants in their sleep,
come out of the walls in their dreams
to see what the Living wish for
when they have lost their bodies.
He takes me to the other side of the mirror,
shows me an orange on the sink,
my body against the toilet. Your friend
was nice enough to peel that for you.
The least you could do is eat it.
Front page image by Gianni Cumbo.