The killer in me is convinced he can see ghosts,
that anyone can, as long as he is also a killer
and has an open mind. He says I can see my father’s ghost,
the one in mismatched denim drinking coffee,
and surely one little kill is worth that.
I say, My father isn’t dead yet. He is very much alive,
though very sad. He drives a truck across frozen roads,
and to pass the time he makes a mental list
of different kinds of sadness. Last I heard, there were seven:
invisible sad, long damn rolling road sad,
these sad times, lady sadness, sadness beyond measure,
moored boat sadness, and the sadness of lack.
Furthermore, I say, What about Hamlet,
who saw his father’s ghost, though he was not a killer
at the time—but the killer in me is quick to note
Hamlet isn’t real and should be taken as a special case,
regardless. Then he tells me to choose: an ice road trucker,
a weeping minister, a horse, whichever is easiest to forget.

Tell me again about the girl whose hands
have no color. Whose hands are completely
white. This time make them damned, or
untouched, or have her open a red umbrella

or point at some maple leaves and damned
near cry. Those hands. As freakish goes,
I wish I had a tail. Maybe then you’d know
how much I like you. It shakes me through,

damn through. It shakes me. When she carries
a peacock feather. When she touches her neck
or thighs. You’re a person. It’s not so bad.
You have hands. You are a person with hands

to hold things. Things you like. Tremendous
things. Tell me what you will hold today. I
know there is room for everything. There is no
need to be ceremonious. Tell what gets let go.