CAROL BORZYSKOWSKI
Dichotomy

I walk down Huff street,
Anne Sexton on my headphones.
Her words bypass my eyes
ears uncover new meanings
slippery as the idea of no heaven,
hell, or supreme power, yet
I harbor a persistent belief in ghosts.

Anne, you and Sylvia haunt me.
Any minute now I expect
all hell to break loose
from your visitations.
Sylvia made me coffee this morning
bumped the stove with her rump
gave me a wicked wink.
I don't believe in hell.
I do believe in electric stoves.

Listen Anne, can we talk?
Put Sylvia on the extension,
we need a three way connection.
I want to talk to you about vodka
bottle you left on my car seat,
and about the bricks propped
against the gas pedal.
I don't believe in heaven.
I do believe in drunk drivers.

Before my walk, a man who heard me
on the radio brought in his lovely
sentimental poems for me to read.
I cried, Anne, I really did.
I thanked God
that people still believe in poetry.
I don't believe in God.
I do believe in hauntings.

I'm not that eager to make a mistake.