Haunt Couture

My ghost wears crisp navy suits,
Pink fishnet stockings with sensible shoes,
Bell-bottom jeans with a tie-dyed halter top.

She knows every way to skin a cat,
And when it’s better
To wait out its attempt on a tenth life.

Her kiss is the sound of dog feet
Dancing in the heliotrope garden.

She is the hand held at your deathbed.
She is the silence that sirens you awake.
She is the reason you leave fingerprint bruises.

Why don’t you let go?