Starving Phantoms Missing Thanksgiving
Ghosts love to gather in the kitchens where
We want our memories to be. The ghosts
Are hungry. Famished ghosts would love to snare
Lorena’s apple pie, the smell of roasts,
Aroma of her pie when bringing slice
And whipped cream to the nose, yes, then, perfume
Of muddy pumpkin laced with Pilgrim spice.
But ghosts prefer the smells inside a room
Of other kinds of love. The wraiths want smells
Of sweat in bedrooms, echoes of the scents
Of gasp and sweat and semen. Love compels
One shade. She whimpers silently, repents
Her turn away from sin that once when love
Was graspable, when she rejected shove.
