ELIZABETH CRANFORD GARCIA
self portrait as ghost
the way a shoe once was a calf,
a daughter now dry
a figless fig
a backyard ball now mossy
is some residue of red
I too reside like
a lozenge
on the tongue
or up the bum
rags reeking
of mildew await their taste
of vinegar
memory of milk
left in the hooks
on a cat’s tongue
pay attention
I have been here
look
the cabinet doors
have opened
with volition
the chairs have moved,
made room for the broom
collecting crumbs
dishes, once Sisyphean
have disappeared
like green from autumn
here is some purgatory
kitchen
and not kitchen
dresses congregate
in drawers, comparing
melon stains
language of sustenance
of subtraction
so
if your loved objects
are abducted
if the lights flicker
if you hear a clatter
unsourced, some glass
crashes and breaks
feel some footstep
not your own,
some turbulence of the air
some sibilant wind, know
revenge
is its own discipline
a hoarded patience
bright as a scoured pot
hovering in the air
Elizabeth Cranford Garcia’s work has most recently appeared in Dialogist, SoFloPoJo, Trouvaille Review, and SWWIM. She is the author of the chapbook Stunt Double and mother of three from Acworth, Georgia. Read more of her work at elizabethcgarcia.wordpress.com.