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Ghost Walk
Sometimes, when the sun
hurls itself over the horizon
and rain paints my yard green,
you walk through my den wall.
Your touch is a flutter of silk.
Shadows fill the holes in your head
stolen by cancer.
Sadness creeps, becomes
armor cloaking me.
It blocks out the dancing barbies.
In the kitchen my husband
steams turkey with rice.
Soon I will lift fork to mouth,
armor clink chasing your ghost away.
Pris Campbell
©2009
Art by Mary Hillier
Published in Blue Firth Review, 2010
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