my new lover calls me ‘little ghost.’
he says, ‘people have been unkind to you.’
he says, ‘how have you survived this long?’
‘you are too beautiful to be alive.’
i tell him of the ways i have tried to die, erase myself, find my way back to nothing. i tell him how i used to be so tired, each awakening a bitter reacquaintance with a world in which i felt like an impostor.
but the bells have always told me otherwise, maybe an inheritance from joan. i hear their joy in the blinking faces of the friends and lovers who keep me here. the sounds stars make when they laugh.
and there are so many bells in montreal mornings, and i feel so alive.
if i am haunting you, it is because i love you.