My Ghost
By: Brenna Phares
Pull the sheet over me,
I am a ghost of your own doing.
I watch my body rise and fall,
but feel no life.
Breathing is easy. Looking you in the eyes is
the hard part.
You’ll see I’m no longer behind mine.
Breathing is a count. A rhythm.
A step in a dance that anyone can learn
with practice.
You don’t even notice how good I’ve gotten
at breathing. At loving you.
It is rehearsed, perfected, and performed.
My body rocks back and forth with yours,
it moans all the right things.
My ghost watches.
My ghost turns away.
My ghost holds my hand and envelopes me.
It is cold and comforting.
But how I long to be warm.
Dear Love,
By: Brenna Phares
Words fell out of your mouth like petals coated in molasses. But they were not words. They were candy. Hard candy that chips your teeth when you bite down with force and intent. When you are over eager and want it all at once.
What appeared to be soft and sweet became stale and stone dry as soon as it hit my lips. My tongue.
My taste buds burned on your skin.
I used to sweat and sigh with you, but now my fingers are blue with cold. Now I forage for winter like a gravedigger for jewels, only finding white bone. I hunger for frost. I came to the snow like an addict to heroin. I needed the drug. The numbness. I took off my clothes and folded them up neatly. I set them in a pile on the mountain and lay down naked beside it. Letting the flurries fall and melt on my bare skin. My chest. My stomach. I thought it would silence my mind but instead it muted the outside world and all I had was you. Bashing around inside my brain. Relentless and flaring.
I crawled down the mountain and into my bed. It was empty without you so I rolled onto the wooden floor, inspecting every piece of dust and dirt, wondering where it came from and giving it a story. How it came to be in this moment. I pushed my fingernails into the cracks of the floor.
This spec of dirt was carried in on a man’s shoe on his way home from work. He had a daughter. She died too young. His wife left him five months later. He now lives alone in this apartment.
My apartment.
But what is mine and what is ours? What is yours other than my body? My heart? My organ that is said to feel. To ache? How can it be yours if it is in my chest? Beating hard and strong and wishing to stop. How do I make it stop?
I watch my stomach rise and fall like waves with each breath I take. I remember that I have life. I remember that I was alive before you. That I was alive with you. That loving you was not a sin. That hating you is not a sin. That still being in love with you is not a sin.
I have so much love inside of me, coursing through my veins. I am learning how to disperse it. How much to give, and how much to keep to stay alive. If I give it all away there will be none left for me.
The ice will melt come Spring, they tell me.
I roll the spec of dirt between my thumb and index finger. I drop it in a locket and clasp it around my neck. I keep the grime close to my heart until I am ready to plant new seed. I will drop the grain of dirt amongst the earth with all the other grains of dirt. It will be unrecognizable. Just another fleck of silt, sliding through my fingers to the ground under my feet.
I will go back inside and wash my hands clean. But not too clean.
One day I will go to the window and see a shoot, climbing towards the sky and facing the sun.
I will stop digging for bones and feed my flesh. I will boil the snow and make water to quench my thirst.
And so you see, I will live.
*originally written for Sincerely
I Am
By: Brenna Phares
I am the succulent lamb you masticate.
I am the pungent sour milk filling your nostrils.
I am the scrumptious hazelnut you crushed on Christmas day.
I am the lit match before the firework that fizzles
Your facial hair. I am the symphonic crescendo of telepathy.
I am the slithering satin you crapulously horde.
I am the arthritis with strength to cripple the elephant.
I am the flub of iridescent vomit.
I am a bellow in the white noise.
I am the cinder that burns velour;
The clank of sterile tools before a
Death procedure. I am the cockeyed man in the
Froth of your coffee cup, a jolt in your escapism.
I am the clown that waddles to the child, the
Scream that erupts from the loss of innocence.
I am the thief of a stolen heart.
I am the stolen heart.
I am.
How To Play With Ghosts in Your Backyard
By: Brenna Phares
Make sure it’s a fall day; they like the cold. It’s best at dusk.
The leaves look like fire when they fall on the ground.
Fog up the window waiting in anticipation, and then
There it is. A wisp of death, but the good kind.
Ghosts are skittish, so let them know you just want to play.
Run outside with the proper play gear: toy guns and a rope for lasso.
No balls, they can’t catch. A ball will just go right through them and make them feel
Stupid. Jumping rope won’t work either. They can’t touch the ground.
They are good at cowboys and Indians and other
Chasing games like fox and hound.
They are fast because they hover and move with the wind.
Hide and Seek is also fun for them. Transparency helps.
This may take a long time if you are not a thorough seeker,
And after all, you’ve only got ‘til mom calls you in for dinner.
Check the trees, and the sky; they blend with the grey clouds.
Make sure to laugh a lot, because they can’t and they like to hear it.
When it’s time to go, make sure to thank them for the games,
Maybe they will come again some time when the weather is right.
Never ask to see they’re home though, it’s rude and
You may not be back in time for dinner.
A Quiet Circus
By: Brenna Phares
A ballerina dances on a stratus cloud.
A lion crouches tense in a grey silky mist.
The musical orbs twinkle above empty crowds.
The pink lightening evening when you and I kissed.
A Nightingale rides on a square carousel,
Wishing she had wings to fly by herself.
Her melody softens at the sound of the bell,
Her heart rests forlorn on the Captain’s shelf.
The elephants balance on mahogany balls
While the mermaids’ batons shimmer like fire.
The suitors all wait in decadent halls
While maidens prance on elevated wires.
The lonesome heavens fade into darkness so tall
When the handless clock tolls the final hour for us all.