We Kept the Dresser

Adam Chabot

In case we have “long-term guests,”
you said, like a heron poised among
paddlings of the ducks you once loved,
a reach into the concealed sarcophagus,
an ironed illusion we ignored.
It’s empty.

Years ago, you believed in poltergeists,
like soldiered belief and prevailed faith
in the hijinks of cracked mirrors and stacked
chairs. A glorious emprise morphed
by melancholy: everything claims
good intentions at the start.