All around the island I feel her ghost
and wonder what more she would’ve made—
There’s flaking lead paint, vines,
trees growing inside buildings
and under the asbestos.
There is a girl, only 22, half shadow,
one arm crisp, still in the frame,
getting herself on paper.
Alone in the house, I expect Francesca
every time I turn a corner,
expect her eyes soulful and sullen,
half caught/half deserting,
mooning up at me.
Adjust the aperture, let it all in.
In the summer, there’s a suicide
in my family, not the first. That decision
to exit so heavy on everyone left behind.
Some ghosts weigh a ton, heave
themselves on your back, never leave.
Others whisper you into the next day.
Francesca, I never knew you.
Come close. Come back.
Let all of you be seen.
