Our house clocks stopped the day my father died—
at three, the very hour that he passed.
No catch of shifting gears, no pulse defied
his absence. Time itself mourned him…

(I have been born inside him, too.) I am
my mother’s goldfinch, thistle-eater of
her womb. I sing her blood’s music, enjamb
the sounds her heart and breathing made above
my new ears…

Your ghost would be there, folded like a fleece
across my bed at night, delaying rest.
Afraid of what I’d conjured, wanting peace,
I’d tug the blankets, waiting…