The wisteria vine
will break in
to your house.
The grapes will ferment on the front porch,
cause your blue
painted wood to buckle, drunk
and peel off their coats.
There’s nothing to fear in the bright light
of day. Look for yourself
in the rear-view mirror.
What is uncanny
about the ghost
is its lack of body, amplified
by its insistent suggestion
Only a body
a shadow or blows
out a candle or fills
up the arms of a dusty old coat.
But the pea shoot gropes
around and around
in the air you can’t see, but can see through,
just looking for something to hold onto.
Don’t worry about it. Hire the goat man and his temporary fences
and they will eat up
blackberries, down to the nub. They will leave you
your cherry tree
with its three dead limbs, the feral cats
that died in its branches, exposed:
the possums and rats and raccoons and
the song birds that belong
in the south, but fly north because the sun
Chris Shorne holds an MFA from Antioch University Los Angeles and has recently published essays with Utne online, Portland Review, and Entropy. Chris spent 2017 as a human rights accompanier in Guatemala and previously taught at Bent, a queer writing institute.