1998

i played with a ouija board in an old cottage

past my bedtime

with a group of girls

my mom warned me:

your invitation to the dead will kindly be accepted

i closed my eyes

letters formed words with intonation-

                                a crack in my voice produced a curious question

i don’t believe in you i don’t believe in you

there are a certain combination of words that my mouth will not utter out loud

that my brain won’t let hover for too long

i don’t believe in you

the ghosts will haunt you if they hear you say you don’t believe

how offended they are

stubbornly, they’ll prove you wrong

2007

my friend told me about one of you she showed me a picture of you your skin so pale your hair surprisingly shiny

you must brush it

i don’t believe in you

1. a creak in your home

2. when your hair stands on your gangly arms

3. a movement taunting your peripheral vision

4. suddenly waking in the night — your heart thumping, afraid before your mind even is

5. the silence of the moon

6. every time you enter a basement

there they are

                wandering in your path

i don’t believe in you i don’t believe in you i don’t believe in you i don’t

you can call them if you want

you can wake at 3am

i sleep with my clock turned down

2013 my mom said she has seen you. she believes in you.

maybe that’s why she warned me when i was a girl in a cottage

who are you? i don’t believe in you

                                    maybe you’ve never seen one, heard one

                                                                    felt one

don’t say a ghost’s name don’t say a ghost’s name

i don’t believe in you

but i’ll never tell you that.