Ghost Walk After the Resurrection
       

I hear the clatter of hands inside
my chest & breathe silver
air like tacks, as I pry open
barn doors. I want to climb

attic stairs & jump
from the loft. To fall,
knowing it means nothing
to be splayed & broken

as weeds, as yellow buttercups
beneath the sun's
heat. How the yard comes
back regardless of a long

winter, blades that gut
the soil. Chickens sing
from a coop, surrounded
by wire. Jostling each other

like refugees on a train
platform, the morning
I left Ukraine. I collect
threads & collars. Missing

buttons. Remnants of a man,
gone. Into the woods, I walk. Petals
of light falling through pines'
fingers. Falling on stone.

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Copyright © 2017 Chelsea Dingman All rights reserved
from Sugar House Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission