Originally published by ëëN magazeen
My ghosts move
from apartment to apartment.
It is time for a new place, and
they are coming with me
again—
my great great uncle is stacked
between his blue and ivory dishes;
my great grandmother sleeps
in her white iron bed frame.
The little specters are tucked
all across the house:
in the Christmas village,
and the paintings;
in the ice box,
and the steak knives,
and the microwave—
some spirits are more practical than others.
I see my grandparents,
watching me through the refractions
of my martini and wine glasses—
the pair of them, which used to sit
in my grandfather’s freezer,
frosting up for his Franzia
or Saturday night cocktail.
I blanket them in bubble wrap,
and carry them to the new place
in my purse.
