Stranger by Cody Davis

Behind you, in the elevator,
                             I talk ghost speak.
I spit milky words
Into your soft ears
                                and coo
                      As they spin and drop
Like pennies and nickels.

I swim my hands through your hair.
My smoke molded fingers get lost inside strands.
and they  thread
                                          my blue veins
and set my arms to deep sleep.

August. 7. 1976.
The kids are growing too fast and the heat is killing the crop. They play through golden leaves and hunt like stalking hyenas, laughing and throwing their eyes to the sky. I watch them from my porch and nod to the sound of the girl’s short breaths.

“But why are you leaving? Stay here with me.”
I can’t. I ha..
“Come on,
                                                                  stay the night.”

I’m the shadow behind the door.
I show myself to you
with the Polaroid playful.
I am not dust flashes
                     I am not termite squeaking.
I rub ice under your       long     pale      arms.
Cold rivers run through your gray avenues,
              Drown small
       town mailboxes
   And hospital
wrist bands.

Ghost mist mops the floor.
It tangles its thin curved legs
around your scarves long.

It leaves sweet smelling
and ash traces on your cuffs.
You are used wardrobe.

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