this is food for ghosts

do you ever remember things
that didn't happen?

there's a yellow room
& she's opening a sugar packet
onto my tongue, a little mountain
built there, melting 
sweet sand. she opens
a sugar pack into her mouth 
then, too, 
& somehow we kiss,
which makes me think
of hummingbird throats full of nectar.

a window's open, white
curtain, blue curtain,
a wind blowing papers off
a desk, all scattered, i'm stepping
on top of them.

i take all the lunch meat
out of the fridge, separate
salami & bologna & ham
onto plates. she's there
again & she folds the meats
like blankets. i tell her
the food is for the ghosts 
in our house & she eats 
a piece & says "good then,
it's for me."

we saw a hummingbird 
in the church garden,
no, no i didn't, she saw
a humming bird in the church
garden, & i was so jealous
i drew sketches of hummingbirds 
on the papers scattered on
the floor blown free
by the open window
that no one opened,
that might not have
been open.

she has a swimming pool
& we sneak out in the middle of
the night & fill it with sugar,
packets meticulously opened  
one at a time, the music
of tearing paper. she jumps
in while i work, floating
on her back, mouth puckering
like a catfish to suck in sugar.
i ask to get in & she says "no"
she says that i'm making
this up because i am,
i don't want a non-made-up memory.

i make a sugar bowl
of my head, carve out the brains,
the soft pinkness & pour white sugar all in.
my head, a swimming pool.
i hang curtains from my eyelids
so they can blow open white blue.
i invite the humming birds,
draw them on the palms of my hands
& wave, which makes the images
almost look like they're flying.
she curls up in the sugar
& says "this is true."