Wraith
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Unnaturally, the small brown bird
with the striated breast
under the park bench is not anyone I know,
just a wren, mute and pecking
at something under the gray leaves
under the ivy. She doesn't remind me
of anyone, though I try to consider her as,
first, one lost friend, then another.
My mother, who is dead, is always a cardinal,
a bird she craved seeing, but one
who stayed away, for fear of the cat.
Today, tired, I try out a dream technique,
and still no one comes. Perhaps,
tired of my complaints, no one
will inhabit anything other than
what they are: the dead remain dead,
disappointed friends stay disappointed, the ones
who love me love me, god knows why.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

From Causeway by Elaine Sexton, 2008

New Issues Poetry & Prose, Western Michigan University, Dept. of English,
1903 W. Michigan Ave., Kalamazoo, MI 49008-5331
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