shr_4.1

Ruth Foley
Haunted
I turn my head and there is burning—
smoke from the back of the television
like from a drop of oil smeared
on the stove or a slice of potato
left to char on the oven floor. Or snow
lifting from the side grass along
the underpass, whirled into the draft
of a sixteen-wheeler, all the moisture
frozen out of the air so completely
May could be another planet in another
solar system. Sometimes there is
perfume—a blossoming in the flour
canister or in bed at night. Anywhere
there are no flowers. A woman I once
knew swore I was haunted—not my
house, me. She heard other voices
below my own, she said, and once
saw a girl standing behind me,
shaking her head. I didn't ask if
anything came to her, petal soft.
I tell myself it's old damage from
an old wound—a biking accident
in high school or the endless sinus
infections I suffered as a child. I
would—I swear—never lie to you.
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