®

Today's poem is by Keith Montesano

Ghost Lights
       

What about the part where the story ends? It ends
with our bodies like machines. Charred like paper—

singed like leaves. Arms reaching out: Come. Now.
Who says the hands of the dead donít ask us

to go there with them? Isnít that so sad? The family
parked, crushed by falling rocks. They all burned

to death. I saw it in the papers today. I couldnít find
a word then. I looked. Iím looking at you now. Yes,

I said, and why are you telling me this? Maybe as I drive
with you Iím remembering her voice: swamp gas

by no swamp, Piezoelectricity. I didnít believe
that sort of thing existed
, you say. Ball lightning. Mirages.

St. Elmo on Boeing wings. Time-lapsed sheets
roaring from our closets. And before our exit: frail bodies

in their otherworldly paths. Bones dusted years from now—
leaving only their voices: Weíve shown you everything.



Copyright © 2010 Keith Montesano All rights reserved
from Ghost Lights
Dream Horse Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission

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