Windows Facing Windows Review.

an open journal of poetry

my dad is an italian ghost

Megan Cannella

and if I had to guess what that means, well fuck if I know.
If I ever get a therapist, I’ll be sure to ask,

but I am not sure my copay
covers ghost talk. I’d check

but I don’t remember my password.
Can you even filter search by your ghosts?

If I had to describe what it’s like to grow up
with an Italian ghost as a father

I’d say there was less pasta
than you’d expect, and thirty years out

mom is still calling herself a widow
because part of us is still

on the timeline where he didn’t die
randomly and alone on an anonymous

hotel balcony, on an anonymous
business trip in fucking Florida.

Go to this poem.