Read More: A brief Q&A with Emilie Lindemann
Ghost(ed) woman
Last seen wearing oversized sunglasses reminiscent of the mid aughts. Last seen waving a brisk goodbye to the job that melted like coconut oil (or is she more of a butter girl? Has she ever used lard?). She likes other people’s posts as if to leave croutons to the edge of some wooded area, her keystrokes hitting the screen in ghost time.
She extracts unrequited emails and lets them dry out in a cool, dark place. Herbs waiting, no expiration, no best by date. When Gmail says sent 7 days ago. Follow up?, she drifts under a pine tree, its branches extending over the sidewalk to the library. She finds a cart of philosophy books and feels the purple and deep blue spines and covers. Feels her toes, root-like, anchoring her to the tile floor of the library’s vestibule.
There is never a reply.
In a Hollow Tree
Lately, I’ve been thinking
about hollow trees, about
a door that I didn’t see.
“Where is his mom?”
my son asks,
every time I read the book to him
about a rabbit named Nicholas
who sleeps in the most secure, hygge
hollow space.
I’m in hiding, stowing acorns
in with my Flair pens//
burrowing in my wood-paneled nest.
In the office for ghosts:
no personal effects,
not even empty coffee mugs.
{Except for a teapot motif umbrella
for a few rainy weeks}
The key creaks
in the lock//
The truth is,
I would teach here
in this office for ghosts
just to have somewhere to go.
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When she pouts in the bathtub,
cascades of frothy pink, turquoise blue, and violet water sweep over everything. Like being in a car wash–only, there’s no roof or windows. She feels like less of a ghost when she’s biking. Her shadow, the movement, the cool gusts of air and the sandhill cranes actually acknowledge her—even if just to rattle a call and flap their wings. If she’s lucky, a quick wave to a bevy of swans in the pond. The teal bicycle not unlike the Etch-a-Sketch (travel-sized) that she used to shuttle into sleep when she was a seven-year-old in a bunk bed.
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Emilie Lindemann is the author of mother-mailbox (Misty Publications, 2016), as well as several chapbooks, including capsule wardrobe for the end of the world (dancing girl press, 2019). She holds a Ph.D. in English-Creative Writing from UW-Milwaukee and lives on a farm in Wisconsin with her husband and son.
Read More: A brief Q&A with Emilie Lindemann