Ghostlight

Photograph by Natalie Silver

By Hannah Meyer

I.

Cheek pressed against crumb & coffee stained oak

with parmesan bagel & root beer in hand

you bribe me through sentences

as the rain presses his many faces on the buttered windows 

of coffee shops

now closed down.

II.

Gingko leaves 

parachute through the whistles of March 

sneak between pages of forgotten books

 & under ribs of gleefully speeding cars

whose infected metal mouths tear their flaxen spines 

on streets

lit by no one

I wait for you,

[my synonym, my forever ghostlight]

for the summer of your voice, 

flash of your earrings, and sound NPR inside our car

men who look like my math teacher

watch from across the street

open their mouths

show me their teeth.

III.

I become a blur sunburnt shoulders & scabbed knees

caught & captured, reflected & refracted 

inside their cathedral of infinite mirrors of car windows & cameras under library tables

you tell me that my shirts are too low

my male teachers are too embarrassed to tell me 

you chase me through imaginary fire drills

off bus four stops too late

 just to avoid being followed

cheeks taught to round & harden 

smooth out his jagged edges

hypervigilance becomes a full time job

when every hello sounds like how fast can I get you inside my house

I will teach my daughter

how to become blind

bike alone 

with no hands

no light & no body

Hannah Meyer is a writer, director, and dramaturg who recently graduated from Muhlenberg College. She is a fan of sudden lightning storms, chutzpah, and finding the perfect bagel.