three ghosts

Poetry of Grief.

three ghosts

I “live” in a house with three ghosts.

The pretty one, who is only scent,
leaps at me from old closets.
From boxes I can’t discard.

The little one, who hides under furniture.
In lost toys and scraps of precious paper.
His touch is always painful, needed.

The old one, who shaves in my mirror.
His sallow face and defeated eyes
suggest other uses for the blade.

He used to scare me. Now, I listen.