David A. Bart - poems
  • Intro
  • Home
  • Kingdom Come
  • Tunnel of Love
  • Exit Now
  • The Passion
  • Texas Education
  • Dumb Supper
  • Good Year
  • Toys
  • Saint Michael and the Devil
  • Invisible Knights
  • The Rain Gauge
  • Ponder
  • Remainder
  • Green Ghost
  • December 13th
  • Dedication
  • Prevailing Wind
  • Dreamland 1911
  • 10
  • On the Median
  • These Things Happen
  • White Water
  • The October People
  • Scene from a Moral Panic
  • Estrellita
  • Another Ending
  • What We're Dealing With
  • How Did the Foxes Die?
  • There was a Man
  • Bio. and credits
Green Ghost

Her hand made spontaneous scribble
of things to come. On the grocery list
our grandmother wrote no not him
not the one. Moments later Oswald
shot the president.

She miscarried seven times.
She claimed their spirits awoke
and could be heard after dark.

At dusk she smelled cigarettes,
said the revenant of a smoking paramour
had come to her kitchen window.

She once pursued a sad infatuation
to Mexico, returned with a photo
of the catholic priest and a devil mask
she hung above her bed.

She put grandchildren in the guest bed
to sleep but we stayed awake to play
the board game stored underneath.
The glowing phantom spinner pointed
it's finger at whoever had a turn but
we never learned to play. We just watched
Green Ghost spin phosphorescent
then jumped into bed before our grandmother
looked in, dabbing her red-rimmed eyes,
muttering about missing pieces,
the lack of rules and small voices
in the night.  



Sixfold, Summer 2014

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