if we could,
we would go back to the days
before the home fell apart.

before the father lost his teeth 
in a bar fight and 
the brother took the lake 
as a lover and
the sister grew more 
than you ever could.

before the two-toned truths
of the hands,
the careful, the careless,
the ways you’ve gotten
to know both intimately.

before the highway to nowhere,
and the headlights like the sun
and the bodies like road maps
you still can’t read.

before the autumn heart hardened,
a brush with death 
something welcome,
like the mother’s crooked teeth
grey with age.

before the feet fled
to the point of flight
and all that mattered was the escape.

for all the times 
we could have 
fallen in love,
but didn’t

for every chance 
of forgiveness
we confused with weakness

for the softness
of the body, hated. 

for the wrists
now untouched and
hardened

for all the light
that never found us

for every adoration
that festered underneath
the tongue

for all the hands
that tremble.

ghost girl—
not haunting
the inside of the eyelid
but trying to remember
the body before it wasted away.

the body, fragmented
every vein in the hand 
a river flowing south,
deeper than you could
ever imagine.
the crooked elbows
bent into a safe place
for a lover’s head. 
the neck, hollowed,
hungry, kissed once
and forgotten.
knees knocking
in a new rhythm
that the mouth 
can’t put words to.
the feet poised,
toe dug into the ground,
ready to run
and run
and run.

somewhere, 
the ghost girl remembers 
what it means to touch.

somewhere,
she’s wishing she could forget.