grave garden

in the dirt the ghosts grow carrots.
harvest them from beneath the soil
& have root parties where
they pull the marionette legs 
of trees to make them sway. i go there
with my corpse face on to try & join.
i have never been exactly a living person.
i remember a whole year of middle school
where i wouldn't show up in pictures.
i had to run to avoid discovery.
in the mirror i would smear concealer
all over my face to prove i was even there.
the ghosts sometimes accept me & sometimes don't.
to be a child of barricades is always to know
how to jump them. i think of the turnstiles 
in new york city & how they are
a favorite spot for ghosts there. 
when i do get to go to a grave garden party 
i feel another part of my wholeness.
it's like becoming a bouncy ball
in the pocket of a boyfriend. the ghosts
never remember their own names
which is a relief because neither do i.
before we are done something always slips though.
i will breathe & they will not. i will cough
& they will not & the distance will become
a kind of water. floating to the surface
& finding myself again among headstones.
going door to door & asking.
"please let me back in." the path is gone though
& i walk home following a trail
of last-worn shoes. i always try
to bring one root home though. this night
it is a turnip. i put the whole thing
in my mouth at once. chew hungrily, eagerly.
tears streaming down my face,
i unzip the dead from me. become 
a peach tree all over again.