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The Lyric Poem Prize

Terri McCord

 

Twenty Years Later

Her ghost is almost

invisible, slim

as a tear

that runs

and dries

on the face,

then slips between rooms

faster than a cat.


My future ghost

tries to hold

her hand

but can’t          find a grip.

I buried her

with a painted photograph

of a cemetery angel, my bronze baby shoes,

an oval portrait,

and the heirloom garnet ring

that looked two sizes too big

for her slender, slender hand.