The Ghost in Love

You remember how you were all alone at the end
of the afternoon, and shadows obscured the furniture like dust,
how the room suddenly became too small for you:
I was there. And that other morning, when you woke
to a sky white as a movie screen
before the picture starts, I was the glare
of the waiting camera, the tension of the audience.
Have you looked at the others' faces lately
across the table, over a meal like any other,
and seen only the indistinct reflections
of strangers in a distant window?
I am that glass. Oh, when you are free,
I too am free as the garbage, the waste paper
that the wind blows along beside you as you walk.
Your lost appetites, the remembered decay
of all fruit (making you lose desire
for what you hold, throw away the half-eaten apple),
the sadness of abundance you don't need—
I've given you all these. Already the deep sea
seems to welcome you more than the shallow.
On the roof, I saw you stand and listen
to the rush of wind in the depths between tall buildings,
stare down the perspective lines to the vanishing point
which is the impossible sidewalk. Soon you'll fall
asleep, and I'll be at the bottom
of the steps you dream you're stumbling over
as your legs contract for the last time before rest.
I will be in your eyes instead of darkness.
I will be in your throat instead of breath.

Copyright © 2003 Jendi Reiter All rights reserved
from A Talent for Sadness
Turning Point
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission