i put my face to fogged glass
to remember the stamp 
of my bones. knock 
from the other side of the walls
trying to shake the house
back to living. what kind of ghost
will you be? i always said i would
toss glasses from shelves 
& let the shatter keep me awake.
i wanted to be a disastrous thing.
a fear catalyst & family wrench. 
now, drowsy-wrapped
i lay down in the root cellar
& worship footsteps. i sleep 
on the blue bath mat & bask in shower steam.
then in the afternoon rest again
coiled like a cat in a patch of sun
on the living room floor. 
always said i would 
full-body apparition myself
at the top of a great staircase.
i wanted my picture taken
so that people Googling "ghost image" 
would find me & shut their laptop 
or say "that has to be fake."
but, i am just a haphazard entity.
i spend most days
quietly pantomiming myself.
here is how i used to open
the utensil drawer.
here is how i once dipped
a spoon into a bowl. 
this is the way i sometimes 
kissed boys in the dark of this house.
turn the lights off. turn the light
on. here is where my socks used 
to wait in pairs. a life 
is very few motions really.
a house has little distances to find.
did i really pass all my years 
with just feet & elbows 
& teeth? now i can at least
stand on the ceiling & on the walls.
i pretend to be a statue. an angel even. 
all the while the humans
perform mostly the same movements
as me. parallel machines.
clink of forks in the sink.
teeth meeting between mouths.
crouching on the floor. i send
a single chill down their spines.
just a draft they think.
my little thread of cold. 

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