twenty-first century ghazal in which i am afraid to say [ ___ ]
Oct 2022
Rachael Lin Wheeler
this day, like all days lately, splits. it bleeds like those approaching [ ] into an endless parade of masked ghosts. of those who should not be [ ] but are. they call my name, itself another ghost, barely believable, which through me passes. my name another [ ] thing. again, the ghosts beg i not surrender to the husk of myself. they beg i make my body into more than another body prone to [ ]. the definition of a ghost is someone who [ ]. my god, you almost [ ]. your body — so near un-bodying. revisiting my mind’s dark corridors, moments blur across windows. those memories too: near [ ]. my memory now: a lens whose focus fades in & out. the only way i know to say this is to write of a deserted town, one of people who all [ ] beside me, one with borders that follow me though i have never touched them. my hands: terrified of [ ] they can’t prevent. when i walk through, i leave imprints. everyone loving & indifferent leaves imprints. let this matter — more than [ ]. this landscape: avoidable. this landscape: severed from beauty, despite wanting otherwise. decorated with rows of headstones — unmarked unlike the [ ], until with a blade i carve one wavering line across each & ask it to mean something other than the violence of some illegible absence. other than [ ]. in this town, below the headstones, the coffins are empty. with flowers i fill them. christen them garden so they may carry what’s soft instead of the [ ]. i wish i had not been here before. i wish i were less afraid of encountering myself. my name: a sound i whisper to remake it in the wake of those who [ ], or could have.
Rachael Lin Wheeler studies in the College of Arts & Sciences at Washington University in St. Louis.