Chelsea Dingman

            Her ghost favours morning.

Through kitchen windows, she points
                        at my sons playing in the rain. A steeple.
            The bell held in its throat. I am

                                    the tree she climbed & climbed
                         & climbed out of
                                    with her name. I am a game

she’s been playing as long as she’s been
                                   gone. Her need to climb
                        until she is untethered

            makes her shiver & shake, limbs
                                    like hard branches. She is the daughter
                        I waited seven months

to wake. My sons, soaked to the skin,
                                    show me their teeth
            through the window. I am

            a monsoon, a mother, a blood
moon. My sons are alive, 
                        today. She is sky. The steeple.

The bell held in its throat. Ringing.