I Am The Wrong Answer

Issue ThirteenIssue Thirteen PoetryPoetry

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By Hibah Shabkhez

From the sunlit fringes of cloud

Yesterday’s ghost watches

You, counting your footsteps aloud

Like ounces of black bread

Grudgingly given. Bread hears you,

Salt listens. Salt snatches

Up your musings,

Launches them through

The rusting bars to shred

Clouds, teach water how to cut stone

And pierce cold flesh. The ghost

Of yesterday becomes a bone

Button, seasoned with blood

And fastens rain about your neck,

Makes you yesterday’s host

For one lightning-bolt, a glad wreck,

Haunted at last. The flood

Of your questions rises and falls

Unheeded. Yesterday’s

Ghost whispers to silent stone walls:

I am the wrong answer.