Ghost Song

the dead fly past,
overarching.
to them we are roots
slow to grasp.

they sup our thoughts
like hummingbirds taking syrup,
resplendent of flit,
brief.

we glimpse a quark of flash,
a dash of blush,
maybe some lucent eyes—
love’s aftereffect.

they laugh at us
like wind chiding honey
as we inch full-bodied,
riled by ebbs—

the dead laugh.
they race to our end
and return,
outflanking lazy hops of sun.

they rush past our questions
and back many times,
amused—

the dead laugh,
coveting our worries,
springing off our breaths.



Narcissus

wallowing in meek desire
like a drugged oyster,

how did i not notice
i was flirting too much,

that roots spliced my toes,
and i had blossomed—

grown so lovely i was faint,
my gaze toppled

as if supine on a chaise?

like wisteria making love
to morning-glory,

twining through lazy dawns,
my flesh had dissolved to panicles,

my lips anther and pistil,
kissing a pond’s blush.


Chris Crittenden lives in the easternmost part of Maine, near the Quoddy Lighthouse. Some of his recent acceptances are from: Drunken Boat, Barnwood Magazine, Autumn Sky Poetry and Juice Press.