At the Edge of a Séance


This is the time when I think of your hands. 

The scissored path of a swallow, skimming over a field of summer grasses. 

Bette Davis, raspy and elegant, aching to light up one final cigarette. 

Your fingers skittish as an only child, your fingers as wise as turtles on a log. 

The threatened rain falls, violent, bountiful, not at all like the touch of your hands. 

I am in love with the grandmothers who are ghosts in your hands. 

A gypsy palm reader’s erotic novel, written in the lines of your hands. 

A grandmother drowsy, dozing on the sofa with the television on. 

The cook’s sweet cream sauce a ghost on your fingers. 

Like crows flapping in a thunderstorm sky, like crones, like typists, like leaves caught on fences. 

Remember a night they were twined in yours: my fingers little monks cloistered in your hands. 

Come forth like Lazarus, move like swans. 

Valentino manifesting with a turn of the wrist. 

Think of a ship filled with all the heroes. 

“Night” is a hauntingly beautiful installation. 

Tell me anything: tap it in code on the kitchen table.