Matthew G avin Frank Before Breakfast She wonders about her own ghost: its dimensions, its dislikes, if it is waiting in the back of the closet with the magenta cardigan that never, even when hung unbuttoned, falls from her hanger. She thinks her ghost is as thin as a stair, clumsy enough to seep through the carpeting into the basement, dripping like any old leak onto the ping-pong table. From the basement she can look up at a backyard window, see the seam of earth that crosses the screen, see the bottom of her fishpond. Today, there is only a frog. She wonders if it wonders if its ghost is like its tongue, testing the air when something wings by. But it's not like that for her. She does not live in water. She barely leaves the couch. Her ghost never opens like a rose, never eats a horsefly. Her ghost is not so different from her. It opens the refrigerator and decides on eggs.
The Literary Digest of the University of Idaho