Forecast
Ghost at Delmar and Bemiston
Wound Cast
I
New baby smell
like newly sown soil
lingering, rain taps
the loamy window
outside. Brick skins
wear seasons hard
climes fail to notice
evolution. Forecast
clouds and sky
collapse in blues.
II
Three hedge against loss
someone said
too casually,
I mute.
Tomorrow who will forgive
the sin?
My earrings breathe silver
children — two jangle, one boy
lost. Cover my face
with hands so I do not
hear the gaping
hole in soft tissue
he no longer frames my face.
In mud and matted grass of night
a ghost stalks the corner of my dreams
Delmar and Bemiston’s weary eyes
reel same narrative same sequence
saddled to groove same skittish alert
the car and laws of physics against you
violence
motion
mass
velocity
force
crash
gravity
potential
[full stop]
Bicycle stripped to bleached bone
u-lock bolts it to post
no gears, pedals, propulsion — a ghost
sinks an inch or so every year idled
same still hangs, above it a name and date
all that remains. The rider missing.
You float above the white shrine intact.
A wound flames
ripe skin
to burn to black.
The blister lingers
like faded birth
like tribal scar
like cavern echo
I can’t touch.
It is too deep
inside my head
embers scatter.
Susan Mason Scott appears in Halfway Down The Stairs, Heartwood Literary Magazine and Thimble Literary Magazine. She taught GED mathematics prior to committing to poetry. She has lived in several cities (including UCity) and villages around the world. She currently resides in Portland, Oregon, but anticipates a next move.
