she came in the dark to remind me
i haven't had a nightmare
since i was six years old.
the last was the wolves, skulls
crushed beneath the steel-toe
of a woodcutter's boot,
trophies in the shed's deep freeze
on a taxidermist's dollar.
so my night-gowned ghost, feet bare
and damp enough
to rot the hardwood floors,
she asked, do you remember
the frost?
do you remember
a rubber sandal caught
on the edge of a castle moat?
weeds and waterlilies like ants
crawling up your skin
and a blanket of wet flannel
tight across the shoulders,
a sail funnelling fingers of wind?
do you remember?
i remember, she said, because
it feels the same way
when he touches us.
