there are ghosts at my table tonight
I write, not mentioning that
my table is a pale rectangle
of wood, so that perhaps
you picture your own table,
round, white, plastic –
or a dark mahogany oval,
and your ghosts are
the dark ring left by
a wine bottle, the last time
you had dinner with
a long lost lover,
or the scorched place
where you set down a pan
too quickly, the day
you heard that news
about your sister, while mine
are the assorted stains
and scratches left by my
children as they leave their
childhood, not quite ghosts,
waiting to fade.
Metafictionfor the Toads
Outstanding, Sarah, oh, how it hits that empty space in my soul.
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Thank you for reading. I was trying to capture the way a reader co-creates the poem, so you are officially a co-creator!
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I felt this, as you intended, even as you were telling me I would. very well done.
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this is a great piece, all those stories, tragedies in those marks…
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Beautiful and melancholic. I feel the longing. It just occurred to me that ghosts of who we once were can also haunt quiet spaces. This is lovely work.
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Lovely, thoughtful poem, Sarah. Yes, we’re all surrounded by ghosts and memories–and we construct images from them.
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This is so beautifully tender and wistful!
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