When Ghosty Died
When I killed you, I wasn’t there, but I tried to be. My alive sister was there. My dead sister hovered above you, always willing to wait for you. Your friends were at the foot of your bed. They were ugly, pock-marked, swollen, badly-groomed, ignorant, unkempt. Ghosty, were you ever proud of me—your well-educated, nigger-loving, dyke daughter?
Your wife was by your head with doe terror. She kept repeating, “What am I going to do without him?” I never called you after you got married to tell you that your wife and mine had the same name.