Benjamin Gucciardi

I Ask My Sister’s Ghost How Dying Is

And she weighs the oath of secrecy the dead
take against the pact we made in the crawl space

beneath the front porch, our birthmarks
pressed together, her cheek against my wrist.

It’s like gathering dolls from the debris
of the great Pacific plastic patch,

filling your dinghy with their pale figures,
lying down among them the way we hid

in Tupelo. Like one doll taking your hand
and you realize she’s lost two fingers

as the boat drifts beyond the plastic
and the stars begin to boil

in the navy sky. Like knowing the story
of every constellation is wrong,

trying to tell the dolls Orion is a butterfly mistaken
for a warrior when they begin to sing the Magnificat

in chorus, place a thousand hands
on your body, tug your eyelids into position.

Two by two they turn, making no splash
as they leave you to the sound of laughter,

mixing with the brine. Her voice quiets.
I realize my eyes are closed

when I open them and find myself
alone in dim light beneath my father’s porch,

the wind slipping through slats,
something scratching in the corner.