Speak to Me
Dad? I call out to an empty hallway.
I’m five listening to the sound of
your feet shuffling on the carpet.
Can ghosts even hear you?
I’m twelve standing by the door
peeking out the shutters.
I step out to stare at
the carport. Empty.
You’re still
not home.
Can he remember where he lived?
I’m twenty-one and down from college
I’ve changed
from the little girl you knew.
You always have advice.
I don’t want to hear it.
I’m not in town,
I lie.
The next day
you lie down where your car parks
on the cracked concrete
and never get back up.
Shouldn’t he be trapped here
with our unfinished business?
I’m thirty-five walking in the desert,
you brought us here to live.
The cicadas in the trees
are making a song of vibrations-
it sounds like the spirit box
ghost hunters use
to energize the dead
into speaking to the living.
Why don’t you talk to me?