that I am more mulder than scully. in the field I look up,
waiting for visitors. walk out into the dark & whisper
my heart into a flashlight. I’m here I say to no one
you can trust me. I want them to be anything but gone.
when the full moon rises, I fill the tub with lavender.
build yet another altar out of sacred objects: pomegranate
seeds & selenite, fire & jasper, feather & bone. I read
spellbook after spellbook. plant burdock & calendula. scroll
through occult forums & rewatch the craft. ghosthunters
come to denver, so I sign up to tour the theater with them.
my winter breath cascades against a tape recorder: what’s
the last thing you remember? I want someone to tell me
what the end will feel like. being swallowed by a wave? a swarm
of fireflies? we huddle in a closet with our evps & one woman
swears she feels a tap on her shoulder. I’m sorry I say
that might have been me. no specter meets me on the mezzanine,
no voice sneaks its way onto my playback. the truth is,
I have no sixth sense. I spread the cards out in front of me
& calmly answer my own questions. faced with a body,
I’d reach for a scalpel. investigate the most likely cause.