A Mount Juliet Ghost
An old lady drowned in Nashville.
She was almost ghost of the year, blind.
Somebody heard a twanging in the oaks
and said she’s home by the soul’s voice
dreaming a tree that walks through stars.
None of a moonrise’s gold could fetch
her mind in a séance. A photographer
leased her apartment above a salon,
threw his best camera at a cop car,
it struck and killed a deputy by no luck.
You see vengeance spelled with a flood
is still the soul prying itself from hate.
You can build a new house in Mount Juliet.
You can throw parties that marry you off
imprisoned. The old lady walks you home.
Clyde Kessler has been published in Silver Blade, Now and Then, Clapboard House, Rose Red Review, and Cortland Review. He lives in Radford, VA with his wife Kendall and their son Alan.