by Blythe Davenport
We start when it’s dark with the bright pop of bubble gum
in a dish, how many pieces do you wish? One foot in the grave
makes you ghost.
If the ghost finds you,
she swallows your light
and you become
a ghost too.
It starts in with its resonant voice: I was down by the pond
when the water started to rise like words in my throat.
And all the spirits scurry for the road, piking it
to beat the flood. I was standing in the field, a drunk man
gulping the words air and escape. Its friends’ feet creep back,
test each step for dry land as it blows the last of its breath.
[Blythe Davenport is a writer, teacher, and non-profit jane-of-many-trades living in Philadelphia. She teaches at Drexel University and works at the Friends World Committee for Consultation doing communications and administration. Her work has appeared in many literary journals, including Stoneboat Magazine and The Painted Bride Quarterly, and her first book of poetry was published in 2013.]