ghost

bloated and gray, his body lays there

300 pounds heavy

and coats the curtains and the carpet

and the leather davenport

in some cologne of its own unworldy category

it was three days since

the wife was unknowingly turned a widow

until her eyes were branded

like some spanish bull

by a wretched Adam stretching his fingers towards

the phone on the floor

all the stories she'd imagined telling him -

the Cuban summer with its air mud-thick draped over

chipped pastel buildings you'd think only ghosts could ever live in,

finding refuge from the Havana sun tearing a hole into the sky,

only out once the bitten hostia of a moon is raised over the city

pale light piercing through the canopy of telephone wires

gone as the door unhinges its jaws