Summer 1988 • Vol. X No. 3 PoetryJuly 1, 1988 |

Ghosts

When we went there the TV with the ghosts would be on, and the father talked and called out every now and then to him, sitting in that space we always left around him, Isn't it June? or Aren't you June? And June would laugh like only his voice was doing it and he was somewhere else, so when the father turned back to us like he was enjoying his son's company, we could tell he was on his way out, too. Until at the end he just sat saying nothing all day into the dark. Walking by there after chores, we would see the blue light from their TV, shifting across the road in the trees, and inside, those two dark heads which had forgot by this time even the cows. So when the truck came to take the manure-matted, bellowing things to the slaughterhouse, all we could say was, Thank God for Liz. Who else would have helped load them up, then gone right on living with that brother and father, dead to the world in bib overalls, while all around them the fields had begun to forget they were fields? Wh

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