Last night, my wife mistook me for a ghost.
She said: “Spirit, why do you haunt this house?”
Mind you, we’ve been married for years, and not
in one of those states where you are allowed
to marry a ghost. But I understand.
I could get out more than I do. That’s fair
to say, although I am alive, and so
“to haunt” is not exactly right, I think,
in terms of verb. But when I point this out,
when I protest her choice of language, it’s
too late—she's called the exorcist.
Rosalind Shoopmann is a poet and academic living in San Diego, California. She likes going for walks, kicking things until they explode, and rereading Middlemarch. She used to like baking but then she worked as a baker for a long time, and now she doesn't like baking anymore.