The James Merrill House

The ghost in the

bedroom doorway had

been trying to flirt with

me for weeks, but

I hadn’t realized it yet.

If I blew by him, he’d say:

Seven seas of sadness,

which one to swim in

first. If I was bored or

restless: Which to float on.

When I was daydreaming

about somebody:

                                  I like the

When he finally did catch 

my attention one night, his

gaze was brightening my

smile on the roof deck, while

I beamed at my friend Inez,

who was wearing her most

awful bracelet, 

 and she lied

to me, saying I looked like a

visionary speaking into the

breeze, my hair blowing

like that. And I felt pretty,

and she felt pretty just

saying it. 

Then, invariably,

as things happen to you when

your suitor is another species,

or is a specter, or you

have nothing but derisive

things to say about him,

he evened us out when

he said to me:

My shadow

falling across you

makes it look like

you’re wearing a toga.

If we didn’t have to

realize then, with such finality,

that we couldn’t curb him

forever, or put him on ice,

or silence him; whether

Inez and I could have sustained

our spark, dazzling in our

friendship, helping ourselves

to curiosity during a time when

we were so optimally realized, as

we lied to each other kindly and

absolutely, we’ll never know.