Afterlife Abecedarian
And you, my love, how are you faring? I’ve
begged you to haunt me, but so far, no luck.
Can you even see or hear me? I know you’re
dead, but we both believed that meant merging with
everything, so you’d be everywhere, which is
fine, but I’d like to see an actual
ghost, like in our favorite movie, a
hologram of you hovering in the house,
ideally, or if not, maybe you could
just flicker the lights or the gas in the
kitchen; I would never call it gas-
lighting me, I’m just looking for a
manifestation. Like Mrs Muir, I promise
not to be frightened by you, in any shape
or form you choose. You might not have a choice.
Please come. In a painting. I promise I won’t
question your appearance, even in a dream—
really. You weren’t afraid to be released from
spacetime, so why should I be scared
to hear your disembodied voice? I’ll try to
understand if you can’t, but I’d be so
very happy for a sign. I’ll be the veiled
woman waiting out on the widow’s walk. Send an
X-ray, a xerox, whatever
you can wangle. Even your
zombie would do.
Barbara Ungar is the author of six books; most recently, After Naming the Animals, confronting the sixth extinction, and Save Our Ship, concerning the climate crisis, which won the Snyder Prize from Ashland Poetry Press. She has published poems in Scientific American, Southern Indiana Review, Salmagundi, and many other journals. This poem is from her new manuscript, Waiting for Your Ghost, addressed to the late poet and environmentalist Stuart Bartow. She is happy to have retired from teaching college English in the nick of time, before AI and TP destroy the profession. She lives in Saratoga Springs, NY.
