The Night Woman

Your visitations
are redundant.

What kind of learning is it
when the message is already
painfully clear?

It's harder and harder
to understand
why your white howling wisp
hangs on like April drizzle

when I've already apologized
from the first time
your hollow mouth
screamed in my face

to tonight,
when a mere whisper
comes equipped with
slithery touchless hands.

Yes, I'm wracked with guilt.
Yes, my heart and head
are swirling storms of regret.

But your constant
flitting and wailing,
sobbing and shrieking,
has turned this into a ghost story.

It works better for me
as a murder mystery.