This week I’ve been haunting the mornings

This​​ week,​​ I've ​​been​​ haunting​​ the ​​mornings.
Singing ​​only​​ one ​​song.​​ Tiptoeing ​​the ​​floor boards.
Slipping ​​out​​ whichever ​​door​​ is​​ furthest ​​from ​​view.
I ​​try ​​to ​​get ​​stronger​​ while ​​you’re ​​gone,​​ start​​ a ​​list
of ​​beautiful​​ garden​​ poisons:​​ Foxglove.​​ Water
Hemlock.​​ Dieffenbachia.​​ Oleander.​​ English ​​Yew.
I ​​thumb​​ the​​ fabrics​​ along ​​the​​ rack​​ of​​ winter
clothing,​​ pause​​ to ​​hold ​​a ​​cape ​​out ​​wide. ​​I​​ could
never ​​wear​​ a ​​cape.​​ You​​ wander ​​a​​ farm​​ and ​​write
about ​​the ​​ghosts ​​that​​ inhabit ​​the​​ buildings ​​there,
but​​ you've​​ never​​ seen​​ a​​ ghost,​​ or​​ heard​​ the ​​sounds
they​​ make​​ when​​ they're ​​certain​​ no​​ one ​​is ​​listening.
Your ​​kind ​​heart​​ couldn't​​ take ​​that​​ sort​​ of​​ melancholy,
the ​​winter ​​air ​​bruised​​ by​​ the​​ melody.​​ A​​ hum,
a​​ hymn,​​ of​​ wanting​​ to​​ live, ​​but ​​not.

I belong anywhere but here

light
a ​​match
from ​​a
flame ​​already
lit. ​​Frightened
by ​​the
force ​​it
slips ​​to
the ​​floor.

Everyone ​​looks
familiar​ ​but
from where
I ​​don't
know. ​​Rats
rustling ​​in
the ​​brush
a​​ reminder
of ​​when
each ​​of
them​ ​turned
from ​​me
at ​​once.

Craving ​​rain
and ​​missing
them, ​​floating
down​ rivers.
I​ ​open
latches ​​on
doors ​​that
lead ​​from
one ​​to
the next,
then ​​nowhere,
then ​​you
tucked ​​inside.

Begin and end where you must. Admit
your dreams are damaged things. When I ask you
to describe a past love, call them more soil than sky,
not a bird to be indentified. When you’re away,
I revisit an old version of myself.
I leave most of the wine untouched,
only use one pillow,
think mainly about what I’ll forget to write. I
put on my before my shirt, somehow,
lean down chest bare.
When you return home,
you’ll find me in this same position.

I know how you look when
you let your hair down.
Dressed in things left behind, foxglove in beard,
you’ll find me crouched in a barn I know will collapse,
and still bury my faith inside. Less frightened of ghosts
grounded, than a spirit who takes to the sky. The owls,
swoop low, gently draped in moonlight. I
hollow my throat to respond from below.
So many things I’m unwilling to say. When I arrive, I’ll
shelter some terror, and you’ll voice your own.
We’ll capture the light trembling through the window,
and paint it tenderly across our bodies, broken or not.

Dana McKenna and Ben Clark live, work, and write in Chicago, Illinois.