← v9n2, Fall 2010
Poetry · Volume 9, Number 2

Ochre vi

& when does moment transfigure to myth?

& who drives its tableaus & trapdoors, the cables

Enabling flight? The credulous & gullible—

Shamanized or conned?

The dearly departed is froth

& smudge. She hovers ectoplasmically

Above her mother’s hat, mother whose own face

Visage tabula rasa, awaiting from The Other Side

Some signal, token, evidence. Annabelle’s

Dear Voice, or her Spirit Writing, ethereal

In the turbid studio dark; a lock of hair to materialize

& for an instant, hold. We are poor passing facts,

Named but faceless.

Each of us a famished ghost.