SELF PORTRAIT OF A GHOST
O thin shell of memory, paper lantern,
fingers leaded to your guitar like windowpanes,
I hear the burn to the bridge
will guide you back to the living,
but your light remains a constellation
I can not name. Look, there in the sky.
That is your dead eye. There, your dead hand.
Who said you could be those things?
God is no woman. She would undo you;
pull you out like thread.
What holds you as tight as gravity stitches a galaxy?
Have my lips made you articulate birds;
their songs are heavy here.
Have my fingers picked prayers from your guts;
O Beloved, they tire of fretting.
When Christie Bingham is not creating extreme burgers at her Fort Worth burger joint, she writes poetry. Her work has appeared in Denton Writers Anthology, The Inn Is Free Poetry Journal and Crannog Magazine.