Backyard Ghosts
By Rachel Freitag
Backyard Ghosts was awarded the Albert J. Montesi Award in spring 2020
Standing on that mulchy patch
with awkward lumps, like hair grown back
on a spot shaved bare,
I strain to hear the creak of swings,
smell the tendrils of your cigarette smoke
rolling past the mulch, the grass,
my young and puzzled face.
I always thought your lips clutched that camel
to look like James Dean or Marlon Brando;
I couldn’t guess till now that it calmed
your shaking bones, that
as your fumes caressed my tender cheek,
disquietude would come for me.
Standing on that mulchy patch
I dig up laughter buried deeper,
your younger, steady hands that launched me
into our blow-up pool
too young to care about floating
woodchips, not yet scared of
splinters, of secondhand smoke,
of anxious demons
you carried, and I’ll carry
to the grave.
Standing on that mulchy patch
long since purged
of cigarette smoke and dirty water,
I stand in silence and
hope I’ll find you here
Backyard Ghosts was awarded the Albert J. Montesi Award in spring 2020
Standing on that mulchy patch
with awkward lumps, like hair grown back
on a spot shaved bare,
I strain to hear the creak of swings,
smell the tendrils of your cigarette smoke
rolling past the mulch, the grass,
my young and puzzled face.
I always thought your lips clutched that camel
to look like James Dean or Marlon Brando;
I couldn’t guess till now that it calmed
your shaking bones, that
as your fumes caressed my tender cheek,
disquietude would come for me.
Standing on that mulchy patch
I dig up laughter buried deeper,
your younger, steady hands that launched me
into our blow-up pool
too young to care about floating
woodchips, not yet scared of
splinters, of secondhand smoke,
of anxious demons
you carried, and I’ll carry
to the grave.
Standing on that mulchy patch
long since purged
of cigarette smoke and dirty water,
I stand in silence and
hope I’ll find you here