On living

The ghost and I eat eggs together,
the yolks still wobbling
on our flat tongues.
We walk over the news
sigh out a guttural breath,
get back in bed. This morning
the ghost is fervent,
laughing like grackle
and just as shiny-blue,
her skin not yet rotting,
her teeth bright. She shows me
how to tie a cherry stem,
traces the jagged stripes
that crack on the insides
of my thighs, pale purple.
She takes two of my fingers
and presses into the wires
of her wrist: she’s pulsing
for now, still reverberating
with heat and unclotted veins.
We don’t think to ask about death
or gifts, don’t ask which one of us
deserves. She finds the source
of darkness in a pocket
next to my spine, digs her thumb
into me. I watch the pulse
on her throat tick, her swallows
moving in rhythm against her skin.

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