A Family Ghost, My Father's Shadow
by Jo Christian
Iron cemetery gates sharpen their teeth
against the sun, the polished sycamore edges
etch the hillside—my grandmother’s gravestone
is a pale palm—my father’s shadow
tinging the grass, clean cut as marble.
I watch the shadow spiral, upward, outward—
a cold, grabbing thing, cleaving for
something solid, something more than a name.