I brought a ghost home from the pet store.
They wouldn’t eat what I fed them,
never drank or needed bathed.
But they watched over my bed every night,
just hovering, shivering,
making ambient howls and eerie creaks
a soundtrack to my frozen dreams.
In the mornings, I led them round the sunrises on a leash of cloudy skies,
I built fires in volcano beds to warm their phantom chills.
And one day, under the blue harvest moonlight,
they told me their living will:
“I made the munitions for the mutiny,
I subsidized the swans’ sedition to steal back the icy sea.
But their trumpeting attacks only made Father Arctic rage;
he coughed out a polar vortex and flung it at my elegant swans–
on the dappled ground, their feathers mixed up with the skinniest snowflakes,
and I fled but couldn’t last in the cold, my season had come and gone.
I once was a wealthy sailor, but I got caught in a glacier,
so came the haunting death of your Mother Nature.”