How to Nest with Ghosts

Stay warm. Haunt knuckles.
Smile at sister
in her school picture.
Show how chipped the
polish is on your middle
fingernail. Your quick drinks
will land like bad jokes.
Haul tendons, feathers.
Drain your glass.
Begin nesting.
Ask for a magic trick.
Ask for a touch-up,
airbrush.



Misappropriation

I listen at doors to learn my neighbor’s habits. There is
no such thing as a secret with me; I lose sleep because
I am so diligent at eavesdropping. At night, I’m sick again
and he doesn’t know the monster in his afterglow dream
is the sound of my vomiting. It echoes off the bathtub,
spills into his apartment. Imagine if he were holding
my hair back. I am sick because I don’t know what else
to do. If I hold still long enough, I believe their midnight
sounds are my own noise. I pretend I am satisfied until I
think I am, or once was. Or I mean that I annex a sense
of being happy enough. When I sleep, I dream of sleeping.