Bethany Carlson

I wake to the sound of shovels,
the glitter of metallic edges
                            arcing over knotted earth.

2 a.m., beneath backyard azaleas,
shade becomes calligraphy.

The ghosts are digging up the money tree,
slicing its thin bark into sticks of firewood. 

As you pull me aside, you note
the way a tiny vein in my right eye
becomes a starburst to the moon,

the heart-throb pith of a watermelon,
a scribble of thread
someone’s forgotten to sew up.

The ghosts return & return.

You know, don’t you, this snowglobe
world is pretend.






This poem is a reflection of its writer's financial aesthetic...& perhaps a few other things.