To E (Somewhere in the reeds, the ghosts are talking)
Somewhere in the reeds, the ghosts are talking.
In my hand, I turn over a gray rock,
before throwing it into the still pond.
A single splash, and their voices vanish.
I cannot hear you if they continue.
Ripples find their way to lick at the shore,
and I place one foot below the surface.
I wait for your voice but find the barn owl.
Soon the ghosts return but whispering now,
they speak in rasps and none of it makes sense.
Do we all die with so much left to say?
Anxiously, I trace your name in the mud.
If there was some way to bring you back
then honey I would tell you everything.
– R
Rachel Rodgers is a poet, or a fool, from Fayetteville, WV. She received her MFA in Poetry from West Virginia Wesleyan College, and her work can be found online at Sad Girls Literary Club and Analogies & Allegories Magazine Issue 6. When she isn’t writing, she takes care of 6 ferrets, 2 birds, and a one-eyed dog.
Beaver Magazine 