“A Ghost Abandons the Haunted”

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by Katie Cappello

You ignore the way light filters through my cells,

the way I have of fading out—still

there is a constant tug, a stretching,

what is left of me is coming loose. Soon,

I will be only crumbs of popcorn,

a blue ring in the tub, an empty

toilet paper roll, black mold

misted on old sponges,

strands of hair woven into

carpet, a warped door

that won’t open, the soft spot

in an avocado, celery, a pear,

a metallic taste in the beer, a cold sore

on your lip—and when I finally lose my hold

you will hear a rustle and watch me spill

grains of rice across the cracked tile.

 

 

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