Roofers strip boards and scatter shingles

on top of the neighbors house, and it feels

like an exorcism. A couple rented there

this summer. The boyfriend hung himself in August.

The workers converse in Spanish while I eavesdrop, only able to catch

the swear words. A man shouts ay cabron!

Not like he’s mad, but startled, and my first thought is

can he see ghosts? After my sister died, the dog barked non-stop

at the ceiling. For months I pictured her stuck up there,

staring down at her death bed. Or worse:

clawing at the popcorn paint, trying to tear through

the roof. I don’t think she’s still there. She had cancer.

I don’t know if that matters. I wonder

about the neighbor’s house. Some people seek suicide

to escape, but what if they can’t?

Rip the top off that bitch! I want to yell at

the roofers. But I don’t remember how to say that

in Spanish, except maybe the ‘bitch’ part.

So I just stand barefoot on my cold lawn

a ridiculous bruja gringa, toes

pushing Earth, eyes to the sky. I’m seeking

a swift bird or a wispy cloud, anything that looks like

a soul moving free.