Chapter Excerpt

GHOST

Sometimes
I can still feel my right hand,
like a best friend;
weighted,
warm.

Sometimes
Mom looks for a tissue
or the book
lying among my covers
and I reach for it,
then I remember
I cannot reach with that hand
ever again.

Sometimes
a prickle crawls across my cheek,
and that right hand tries to
rise from the grave,
moved to scratch.
The fingers, palm,
wrist, and arm
that I remember
don't know enough
to know
peace.

_______

Excerpted from Shark Girl by Kelly L. Bingham
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