I paid a TV psychic $200
to talk to the dead
for less than 5 minutes.
A séance over Zoom
with a gallery of strangers
unmuted by a static veil.
I asked for you.
“She’s surprised you chose her,” he said.
Of course, you’d say that
like you didn’t believe
you still lived in my blood.
I hoped you’d come through
like your voice on the answering machine
when we were still us.
But you continued:
“We couldn’t make it work.”
“I’m fine with whatever you do.”
“Don’t do things you know you shouldn’t.”
Still pushing me away,
like I’m gravity,
and you’re trying to float.
In life,
you told me constantly
I’d forget you.
But I haven’t.
I throw your name
into the ether like a prayer.
I wanted you to say:
“I miss you.”
“I’ll see you again.”
I wanted your words
to sound like the night
we took monochrome photos
of the things we found beautiful.
Everyone else got peace and
happy messages from their dead.
I was mad that you didn’t say my name
like it still meant something.
That you didn’t tell me you stayed close.
When he moved on to the next person
something raw in me cracked open.
Like someone passed me a note
I wrote to myself a lifetime ago.
Not peace.
Something quieter.
Little rhythmic hauntings
that let me walk out of your memory
and back into my own life.
Chestnut Cowboy 