Rachel Wold, On the Tide (Website, Instagram)
Acrylic on wood panel

roam through
the streets of China,

the air humid
with spirits rustling

around. They are hungry
for something only the dead

can taste. Such as wind,
such as whispers,

such as the stillness after an echo.
I am here to speak

to my great-grandmother,
but I cannot call to her

because she had no name.
Instead I hum a lullaby

under my breath,
longing for some sort

of phantom reckoning.
It is a song

I do not know,
sung in a graveyard

of the living.
The bodies are echoing

with words
I only slightly recognize:

. Don’t wander
too far
, the ghosts tell me.

I have tried.
Give me the answers

I do not know
the questions to.

A chrysanthemum blooms in boiling water. It does not drown.

I am begging to be haunted.

Saba Keramati


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