By September Thorlin
There’s a ghost in my poem.
I only meant to write about a rose —
But it took my rose
pricked my finger
leapt back to the page
and danced its ghostly dance.
Holding my rose
without a care
disfiguring them beyond recognition.
The ghost, glancing over its shoulder
meets my shocked expression with an eye rolling response,
“My dear, that poem never belonged to you,”
with a wink and nod,
“but now it does…”