by Emari DiGiorgio
And the hungers are out.
Boardwalk shops shuttered for the season,
wind rattling padlocks and roll-down doors.
Here, in the bone moon, where I roam
snow-swept dunes, you appear: spector
of summer kitchens past, dragging
your chains–heavy clatter of cast iron pots–
through marram grass. Canning rings tumble
from wrists like bangles dropped.
The unmistakable walk of a fused ankle.
When you died I claimed the inoperable artifacts–
Royal standard typewriter and folding
Singer sewing table–when what I wish I took
were the letters bound and boxed beneath
the stairs, an unfinished afghan, some sense
of your penmanship and voice, something
to draw close. You haven’t come to haunt me.
You shuffle toward water’s edge where foam
swallows drifts whole, leaves the shore pocked.
In this light, I see straight through skin, your veins:
fraying cross-stitch of blue and purple asters.