Speak to Me

Dad? I call out to an empty hallway.

I’m five listening to the sound of

your feet shuffling on the carpet.

Can ghosts even hear you?

I’m twelve standing by the door

peeking out the shutters.

I step out to stare at

the carport. Empty.

You’re still

not home.

Can he remember where he lived?

I’m twenty-one and down from college

I’ve changed

from the little girl you knew.

You always have advice.

I don’t want to hear it.

I’m not in town,

I lie.

The next day

you lie down where your car parks

on the cracked concrete

and never get back up.

Shouldn’t he be trapped here

with our unfinished business?

I’m thirty-five walking in the desert,

you brought us here to live.

The cicadas in the trees

are making a song of vibrations-

it sounds like the spirit box

ghost hunters use

to energize the dead

into speaking to the living.

Why don’t you talk to me?