by Lola Haskins

    I'm crossing the river where it narrows，

    carefully， it being Sunday

    and I'm past the root end of the log

    when I look up，

    and there's a haunt sitting

    on the blossom end.

    I can see trumpet vine and blackberries

    through her white dress.

    Gnats hang in the air.

    The river runs， red-brown and deep.

    The haunt sings

    and it's my music， the blood song

    of my heart and bones

    and my skull dancing in the road.

    And Chloe， she knows my name.

    She says Oh Patsy， take care，

    or you will surely fall

    and the thick river

    will pull you too to shroudy weeds

    and you'll be gone，

    gone as the moment you looked up

    and saw the trumpet vine and

    berrries， hot and ready

    through my white dress，

    gone as all the years since I died，

    and waited here for you