Mistaken for a bird at the window. Caused a blood chill.
Appeared to the children from the closet.
Was associated with the scent of lilacs in December.
Opened a window; said opening was dismissed as a forgotten action.
Married the sister of the local midwife when she was asleep.
Grew into the lungs of a goat and bleated along with Miles Davis played through headphones in the dark morning.
Invited to leave, and stayed,
stayed past my welcome time and wilted the flowers in the front room.
Scribbled a song in the folds of the husband’s frontal lobe
that rang in his workshop when he’d quit for the day:
I am mechanical,
you are flesh.
I am eternal,
you are fresh.
I am the retort,
you are the calm,
you are the sermon
rationalizing harm.
Went to the kitchen and left the cupboards open for the rats.
Became a deity to rats and whispering centipedes.
Called a ghost and was exorcised.
Went on vacation in Buffalo and returned in two weeks.
Called a demon and was cast.
Went on vacation in the china closet, cracking the antique cordial glasses.
Called a delusion and was medicated.
Lived with that pretending to be dull brass banging.
When they moved away I stayed behind
but planted a postcard in their luggage that said: I win.
I won. I won and opened windows and carried lilacs
and lay down before the rats and taught them to sing
like small trumpets in mean mean mouths
while we waited for the next intrusion.
Dark Matter 