Describe the body, if you wish to collect it.

I decided a long time ago that the wh... I can't live in a world without ghosts.

Describe the body, if you wish to collect it.

Casus BelliText within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedThe nurses grumble in with saline sacks,pinched metrics, needlepoint faces he prodsfor a casus belli, turn bumptious backsto his howls; ignored, he summons ghosts, gods,stonewalls his living guests, flipflops and nodsyes to cocktails, cigarettes, private yachtsnot proffered, flinches from a firing squadof light, holds forth. Time-lapsed, lucid, he rotsapace, weeps; like an open sore, or apricots.From his bed, oblong squares of gauze unfurllike shitstained kites. He calls for grapes, thrusts,deflects, his intellect a bloated pearllustrous with malice. Settled in its dust,silted. His arms punctured vellum, unpuffedsails, slack with promise. His surgeon he bestswith apt puns; he stymies nous, compels trustand love from richer men who acquiesce to his tall truths, his eyes unspooled as mangled nests.He says The sun has ice cold fangs and I can't. He says it's morning. E-mails he sendscome out all moonfaced yellow suns that cry,leer, wear party hats. Chickenshit, false friends.Favours crowd him. The neighbour boy who lendssweat marked banknotes, students, cousins, paid nurse.He types a row of question marks; and bendsforth from his lips a skein of English verse.He claws the air. The unseen ship he hails – a hearse.On the Subject IIText within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedDescribe the body, if you wish to collectit. Say it could have been no other. Because it could have been and was instead someone five foot six, dimples tits Fernet, mom-patched jeans, ballcapfor all occasions, blackbirds on the house, scars finger-thick. Cleavage of skinned treebranch edging her throat, beau soleil. Semi-permanent shiner – because her Atlantic runoff baby greys rolled cloudward, mussel shell. Bouctouche River silt in her sass.Fuck right off, tell me another one.What else you need to know about this one of many women, a shovelful of carbon?Friday night special, how now to distinguishher, our molecule of molecules,ragged shrine on a Dundas West stoop,crossword puzzle waterlogged. Halfcutthe flowers tear themselves apart for free.The bereavements die of rain and rain.Because she read true crime and couldn’t sleep,comics, jaundiced leaves of Portnoy’s Complaint.The click of her claws on instagram’s carousel blur, trailing carnival of red.Cheek chipmunked with chickenwing,serious ink blooming on her cream like a neck-down haematoma. Incisor glintingin the barlight. You’d remember that.You’d recognise men’s handiwork all over her body. Remember the afterburn?Dust of any other cinderella. Her shards. Gold tooth on a shop floor, lininga lockdown pocket. Cunts. Judy saidyou could also mention bowleggedif you were so inclined. Her Chiac-flecked French, Rs that roll forever, skyline-bent – past the bend in river or road, past the horizonof herself, why should a woman? Go on. Her Acadian laugh.(Judy says A whisky in her name.) You miss her, don’t you?As if that meant a thing.Eva H.D. wrote Rotten Perfect Mouth and The Natural Hustle; also the short film “Jackals & Fireflies.” Her latest film with Charlie is “How To Shoot A Ghost.”

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