National Poetry Month : Margo LaPierre,

How to Scour Ghost Wounds Using Only Water

i. establish associative architecture

translucent freckle

sluice noise constant

a cracked leather couch

a conch salad

a wake away

sucking rock

waking up

trying to twist

bracing cloudfall

white triangles

flowing roots

a reminder to

driftwood, memory

overhead a bucket

engorged and rippling

the ghost attacks

birds reappear

fishing for beetles

black dinghy shuffle

tidy fullness 

a dog’s jowls flap

along the shore

truly dove-like

ii. locate a horizon line

all animal life disappears the ground is still the only sound the mechanic crash of the lake groaning in the wake of party boats an excommunicated sun grinds out a flagrant auto-eulogy— The wet ghost of this poem renowned for his stranglehold, for blotting sunsets

iii. drink while urinating to feel wide open

the ghost’s mouth and incandescent gush all I can think of at 5 a.m. unregulated by circadian flow my breath strong underwater and unbroken in a body longing to be held for a minute or two before swelling into unknown territory like forever turn away sleep collective forehead chatters

iv. cross a large body to erase a curse

beyond the jumbo jet window an ocean erases the intentions our enemies harbour for us— In that pristine cabin we are light as curses lift like dirt from a Coca Cola coin, clean and acidic, clean and gorgeous, clean and shackled to the corridors of the ghost’s conditions

v. watch full-immersion music videos

in a prayer-like echo of cloth and hair bubbles issue from naked pores like unclasped balloons, tracing retroactive inquiries around the ghost’s ambiguous limits

vi. learn to say anemone

before the ghost smashes through French doors with muscular shoulders before homemade lemonade pools sway on the floor (lashes liquefy their stunned object on tile) let me go back and say to the ghost go grey and foolish go sing to no one somewhere outside of me under a tin roof raining

vii. show gratitude to houseplants

I fill myself with jars and jugs wash out lipstick stains buy dish soap ignore ghosts and tend to corners of the apartment with thin streams of care for living things saying thank you, I will take care of you, look at how green you are

Margo LaPierre (www.margolapierreeditor.com) is a queer, neurodivergent Canadian poet and editor. Her debut collection of poetry, Washing Off the Raccoon Eyes, was published by Guernica Editions in 2017. She is a poetry selector for Bywords.ca, board member of Arc Poetry Magazine, and Membership Chair of the Editors Canada Ottawa-Gatineau branch. Her work has been published in filling Station, CAROUSEL, Train Journal, and others. She/her.