My grandmother still sends me fifty-dollar bills
through the post. Countless times, I have listened
as she floats upward, then sinks back down. Fog
that rolls in thick, crusty loafs. The front porch
still smells like a ghost, like newspaper ink
tinting countertops purple. My articles are good
for wrapping fish, or lighting a fire. Tomorrow,
I will find a blank letter caught in a barbed wire
fence. There will be no loose change, no
newspaper clippings that we will try to read
before giving up, using them to wrap fish.
When I grab it, all of the ink that isn’t there
will stain my palms.