Consider the imperatives of talking to a ghost,
how remote your voice would sound,
wax cylinder faint. You would speak
a fractured English, in breaths
that wouldn’t fog a mirror.

I rigged a make-shift Ouija board,
placed my fingers to a bled shot glass
and waited.
Capricious in death,
you’d as likely spit in my face as lay
a hand on my shoulder. I was tense,
ready for the cold draught, the smell
of saltpetre, coffee, pipe smoke.
But the glass stayed calm, leaking
its dregs. I lost my nerve.