And I'm Not Even Dead Yet

I came to the house

A few days before

I died.

That’s how it works.

Most people--

Should I be explaining this to you?

I don't think I should

But I'm dead

So the consequences

Of doing something

I shouldn't seem...negligible?

Then again

I'm not dead

At the moment

Although I'm headed that way.

With most people

The soul leaves the body

A few days

Before the body

Is no longer...

...Accessible to it.

Transition periods

Are important

Even when you’re talking

About life and death.

So…

You get a few days

To get your bearings in order

And find the place

Where you’re going

To spend the rest of eternity.

Provided you’re not interested

In being a roaming ghost

Which, some are,

But your sense of direction

As a tetherless spirit

Is something akin

To being blind and free of limbs

So most ghosts prefer

To just find one place

And stick to it.

That’s what I did anyway.

Found a house

Near where my old house was.

Nice attic.

Dark, musty,

But a good amount of moonlight

Coming in from one of those

Porthole windows

You see attics having

In the movies.

You’re not allowed

To stay and haunt your own house

Unless you have some unfinished business there.

But even then

You need to state your case

Before the Body of Possession

And despite the anecdotal evidence

I can assure you

They’re not likely to let you haunt

Unless you’ve really been wronged.

I'm going to die of a heart attack

With absolutely no grievances whatsoever

And that means

I need to move to another location.

Never a good idea

To spend your afterlife

Where you spent your life.

Just blurs the line

Between the living and the dead,

And it benefits us all

To have that line

Be nice and clear.

I always wanted

To live in an attic anyway.

I used to spend all my time as a kid

In the one we had at my childhood home

And my mother would get mad

And say ‘You have a perfectly nice bedroom’

And I did.

But I liked being

Away from everyone

And everything

Surrounded by boxes

Full of old clothes

And the dressmaker’s dummy

My mother got

At the flea market.

There’s no dressmaker’s dummy

In this attic

But there are boxes.

Lots of them

And one of them…

Can I tell you about this?

Should I?

I'm not even sure

I should be telling you

About my death

Until I'm dead

But I've been accused

Of getting ahead of myself

And when I went in front of

The Body of Departure

That was a criticism

That they had of me.

That I always went

To the next thing

And the next

And didn't live in the moment

Which is a heartbreaking thing

To say to a soul

Once it's done living.

But the boxes...

One of them

Has a shirt at the bottom

With blood all over it.

Not sure where the blood came from.

Could be something innocent.

As a ghost, you don’t…

You don’t know anymore

Than what the living know

But…

I have a feeling...

My soul swirls around

The attic

And goes downstairs

And finds the owner of the house

Eating cereal

And reading the newspaper

And he doesn't seem like

The kind of man

Who would bloody up a shirt

Like that

But the shirt is also

Much too small for him

In other words

It's unlikely that it's his bloody shirt.

Later on that night

He cooks shrimp

And invites a woman over

And she eats the shrimp

And she seems to enjoy it

And the two of them make love

And as they do

I feel a fly land on the bloody shirt

In the attic

Because it was hanging over the side

Of the box

Which is not a good way to hide it

Unless you're not worried

About hiding it

Because you don't think

Anyone will find it.

The fly distracts me

And by the time

I get back downstairs

The man is already

Helping the woman

Into her coat

And telling her how sorry he is

That she can't spend the night,

But he does that thing tomorrow,

And she says

Of course she understands.

I'm not accustomed

To watching men

Interact with women

Because all I had growing up

Was my mother

In a house my father left us

When he left for people who weren't us

And a series of boyfriends

Who I did not care for

Or like.

I am accustomed

To mysteries.

Mysteries, but not men

But mysteries about men?

Well...

You see, when I was a child

I found a knife

At the back of our hall closet

While I was looking for

My old soccer cleats.

The knife was wrapped up

In an old handkerchief

And it was rusty

But it was a particular kind of rust

And when I brought it to my mother

She told me to put it back where I found it

And never ask about it again.

My mother would sit

At the kitchen table

Not eating cereal

Or prepping shrimp

But she would hug me tight

And tell me

That I was the heart

Of her hearts

And the only time

She ever looked at me

With the glint of chill

That so many parents

Find themselves using

On their children

Was when I showed her

That knife.

This time I'm not going to have

Anyone to ask.

How many people do you think

Have bloody shirts or bloody knives

Stored in places

Nobody can see?

Maybe more than we think.

But I look at the shirt

And I put what used to be my hand through it

And when what used to be my hand

Comes back

It’s bright red in the moonlight

That comes through

The porthole window

And I feel myself split apart

And come back together

But I don’t move

And I don’t focus on it too much

Because I’m still

A day away from dying

At that point.

And I don’t want

To mess

That up.

I don't want to

Get

Ahead of

Myself.