You wouldn't understand
I am troubled by the Idea of our souls knowing more than us
Like a ghost in the machine.
The dead lay around here, here where I sit now
I can see her as though she might be sitting there still.
Catatonic, like when I saw her last.
Finger nails turning black and yellow eyes falling into the pillow.
Now, my eyes see only that, in black foam and needle blood.
Giving health to the fever-stricken ghost.
Posted by ELLEN JANE ROGERS at 6/03/2010
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