Sexton's, My Ghost
The pale women, white bellied men
do not haunt me. But Sexton's children
curl upon my pillow. They pull teacups
from the side board. One by one,
smashing them on the soft wood. Anti-angels
escape from my cellar, cold steam
up the stairs. Children call "mother, mother"
from door-less rooms and speak
in silence as they lurch above my bed.
At night they push the cradle
in the attic with use-less arms. Swing
it high, so that it flips and empty
spills all over the floor and breaks.
Bio:
Carol is a poet who currently teaches and lives with her daughter, Kelly, in South Florida. Her poems and short stories can be found in The South Carolina Review, The Pedestal, Concho River Review, Pebble Lake Review, Miller's Pond, Ghost Magazine, Fate, Eclectia, Snow Monkey, The Blue Collar Review, StorySouth, Ink Pot, and other print and on-line magazines. She recently sold a poem to the Kansas University Athletic and Media departments to be used at their web site and on sports' memorabilia. Her blog address is http://parristhepoet.blogspot.com.
