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.