death

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I was an adult when I saw my father’s ghost walking on my bedroom walls in central Minnesota, pacing back and forth, and back again.

If there is no rest for the wicked, I must have done something awful.

Come sit on this mossy log on the steaming hot bank of the deep wide brook, by the cattails lilypads and skunk cabbages.

I won’t write his name, for the same reasons I don’t ever say it out loud.

I went past him on the bus. I could only see his feet, but I knew it was a him.

Short-notice tasked to take minutes in meeting. Don’t know how. Never done it before. Will make long notes now and hammer into shape later.

Two truths and a lie:

He had turned into a cat sometime in the night.

Everyone was dying on the boat.

She’s fucking crying again. I can’t stand it when she cries.