A ghost lodged itself in that hollow place behind

my collarbone. I turned counsellor in my sister’s grief,

soaked up her wine-slick tears as I assured her that I was sane,

that I’d be the same, that I wouldn’t change, not really.

(I was a small thing then and didn’t know how I would grow

around the ghost). Just bowed my head and held them all.

My sisters and our mother asked their questions and we laughed

around the new sounds unconvincing: son, brother.

My stepdad sat still in the corner. After, I smuggled my shade

on the plane back home then tried to find a place to put her. I

looked in all the drawers for space but they overflowed

with cups and plates, the Christmas tree, prom dresses,

make believe. I combed through my journals for an empty page

but they all blurred before me. I went into the garden

to see if I could find a pot to put this seed in, but everything

was frozen shut. I was frozen shut. There was a cold ghost inside

me and a burning. I had never carried a ghost before and

I didn’t know what I should do. I was prepared for pain but not

for this. I didn’t know I would get a ghost. I went to bed and we curled

around each other like parentheses: the new me and the old me /

the same me and the changed me / the beginning and the end