I have always been afraid of ghosts. It is not just me: my mother is the same, and hers.
A hereditary fear perhaps, encoded somewhere in colonial architecture. As a child I never
walked alone into unlit basement rooms, hands feeling around door jambs for a light switch
instead. Now, alone in my own bedroom I try not to think of what (or who) might have eyes in the dark.
I wish you were here to distract me. When I think of those nights you laid beside me in this room
I most remember your irises, the kind of gray I expect to find beneath glaciers: cloud-mottled and
speckled with ten million years of prehistoric dirt, ivory skeletal river beds, bones. They are that
cobweb kind of gray— my great-grandmother’s stories, how memory is fuzzy, almost invisible.
I recall my palms on your warm chest, your unsettled eyes: these ghosts in the room—the singing radiator
in the corner, how winter night, lonely and quivering, watches me from the window. [End Page 32]
Alexandria Delcourt received her MFA from the Stonecoast MFA Program in 2014. She teaches Creative Writing and English at the University of Wisconsin-Whitewater. Her work has appeared in Written River, Poetry Quarterly, As/Us: A Space for Women of the World, Kalyani Magazine, Aster(ix), Profane, and other publications.