I married a ghost.
It doesn’t happen overnight
but the exceptions.
Hold me accountable.
Hold me, that is what I’m really asking.
but I am the maker.
Dear Brother, Dear Incisive Editor, Dear Affair, Dear Head, and
You are every man
starting with my great grandfather.
You are a truck driver. A leftist in the Spanish Civil War.
A hero to the mountain people. A father dragging his daughters behind him
on dirt roads on a squeaking bicycle.
An atheist, como Dios manda.
I’m a proud woman. I will only try conjuring you
except Ouija boards. We all have our limits.
while I’m trying to save myself.
If you must look for me
it will be a few years ago
behind my mother’s red door.
Pretend we’re at a pub now.
Look, don’t touch.
This has never been about your return.
I am only surviving now.
Every way I’ve imagined you
is spilt oil. I’ve killed you to think of a kiss.
I’d do it again.
You are already also a verb. Watch me
as I make myself into one.
We’re stuck in that night when
I told you I thought we would have been good friends
if we’d been equals
and you said Gorda, we would’ve been so much more.
You are nothing so solid
This is from the future.
Today, day did not depend on the sun—it came when the clouds parted.
Victoria A. Sanz is a native Miamian living in New York. She is an M.F.A. Candidate in Poetry at New York University, and holds a degree in Creative Writing and American Sign Language from Columbia College Chicago. She is Managing Editor for Essay Press. Feel free to contact her at firstname.lastname@example.org.