there was a little bit of blue
in the sky, just enough day
to light up the way to
the bathroom. I’m pretty
shocking in the morning
all lit up in the mirror
so much so, that when
I close my eyes, an image
of me remains and I get
who I am as a ghost, know
what it would be like to be
haunted by a totally naked
version of myself. Maybe
that’s why ghosts wear
white sheets, they are tying
to be more decent, to not
have all their good spooks
get hung on up their genitals.
But then, if you are solid
enough to support the sheet
why not just wear pants
and a t-shirt? Shorts would
probably be even better
unless it’s really cold when
you die, which I’ve seen
in movies and on television–
people always have the chills
and shit. Anyway, a line
of red light pushes down
on the buildings outside
my bathroom window and
and I can’t say I’ve ever had
a less spiritual experience
than quickly scanning
the moles on my bare chest
trying to remember what
color they were yesterday
because I’ve been told
by my doctor to keep an eye
on them as a way to warn
me of my own impending
doom. As a way to plan
out how I go about dying.
It’s like the stars in that way–
my chest a way to navigate
through the darkness of
the future, the unknown.

BJ Love teaches English and creative writing at the Emery/Weiner School in Houston, TX. His poems have been published in Gulf Coast, The North American Review, and elsewhere. 

(Next Page BJ Love)

(Previous Page V. C. McCabe )