Here's Another Lie

They don't leave.

You feel them a room away
or even closer. They're ice clouds
by the refrigerator, misty
in the mundane kitchen.

Just today she sat there
in a waiting room. When she turned.
her hair was still thick, streaky with dye
on that other woman's head.

I'm linear, a means being swept
toward an end, but they're multidimensional,
all their smiles and tears and rages
elbow to elbow in my personal space.

It's a good thing I love them
because sometimes their chatter
is an unending breath of memory
whirling our past around me in storms.
It leaves my feet cold and I feel empty
spaces in my palms more clearly, but I
keep my hands open. I like the weight
of them there, so I don't let go.

One grand night the ghosts came out
in silvery green auras to play hopscotch
on the porous bones of my recollection.
They tossed themselves across me,
threw pebbles like thunder,
and the numbers they rolled spoke.

Two
and cabbage roses appeared on the carpet.
I watched the floor and listened to their voices.

Six
and I rolled through the Lincoln Tunnel
past midtown to the Hayden Planetarium.
They were already there, whispering
my name from the painted stars.