Satin Ghosts

I met an elderly widow, who carried ghosts in her pocket.

She smelled of Avon’s Red Door and mothballs.

She called them memories,

wrapped in satin handkerchiefs.

Folded just right,

leading back to War-zones

when graves were a monument of shoes .

When she spoke of them,

her voice cracked like a

ceramic vase,

shedding secrets

no one dared to mend.

She prays

not for vengeance,

but for mercy,

for the world to remember

the ash, like she does.

She avoids the produce aisle in fear she’ll run into unwanted ghosts,

like potatoes.

Nor does she attend barbecues or go outside mid-snowfall.

Everytime she grabs a paper number from the deli she’s reminded of her fateful death.

The one she was spared.

A seven-digit ghost that taunts her,

with every beep brushing a barcode.

The ghost often visits in many faces.

One as her grandson when he leaves crumbs on the plate

she dissociates.

She still counts things

the tiles on her bathroom floor,

the number of steps to the mailbox,

the seconds it takes

for water to boil.

At times this is the only way she can breathe.

Ilse, I am Ilse,

as if reminding her bones

that she is more

than a number.

Every so often she pulls out the satin handkerchief and preserves a tear,

a keepsake, a memorial.