WORDS • IDEAS: ADELE EVERSHED
A History of Ghosts I do not know why I dream about this little café I haunted when I was young My pale face pressed against the pain When my mother went through her narrow door slamming it behind her so I was left alone I felt I might just crumble away— but each time I’d think about their lemon biscuits served with a puddle of butter telling myself it was melted sunshine on a plate and I found I could warm my bones on the memory I do not know why I still think about Spanish moss and deep southern summers That cast long shadows on sunless days The chained parrot asked—Who’s a pretty boy? as he rippled past me flying his youth like a flag I felt I might just soar away— but each night Uncle opened my narrow door saying no good thing could happen to a bad girl like me so I found you did not need love to make a baby and summer can melt away forever I do not know why I have such a fancy for the tang of bleach and bacon fat From that less than genteel Northern dinner
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