I
I wear the silver thread she gave me
because it’s still pretty,
and because it reminds me
of old nonsense. Over the sink I water
the dead with murmurs,
swat at spirits.
II
Ghosts hold a reunion
in my chest, and they didn’t
even invite me! What did I expect,
the way I use the dead?
In the garden I dig up radishes,
their skin screaming red.
III
The parts that make me up I’ve made up:
I quarter and sever, string and sew.
In the afternoons I spend my time saying and erasing
words through a telephone line
where wind confiscates any chance
at coherence.
IV
If she calls, I will tell her
the sink is clogged again,
that it is always her
hair. In the garden, I press
my ear to the ground, listen
for the inflating lung.
Lisa Kouroupis is a poet who lives, reads, and writes in Chicago, IL. Her work is published or forthcoming in West Trade Review, Funicular Magazine, Arboreal Literary Magazine, and elsewhere.
