Ghost Chant

2/23/21

Thomas died last night —
And when the ghosts danced,
the disco fell flat in my lap
and this is what I heard them chant:

“From the tall trees we clamp —
The fuel-ridden seeds we clasp —
The furnace-fumed head
of my mother’s forgiven dread.

Buried deep down,
unforgivable fortunes —
something I wouldn’t dare bet
equal the pain we’ve kept.
Every slap in the face —
Everything can’t replace —
Gone without a trace.
As if it were for —
my mother’s forgotten grace.”