ghosts

squelching sounds the alarm,
rings until it’s cut short,
no squawk, no last call,
a cut clamour, a last breath,
a collective sigh; he stopped
breathing and we exhaled a scream
that broke glass storefronts,
reverberating like a haunting.
we are the living ghosts who
remind me of the past beneath
your floorboards and swinging
from the trees, we are the living
ghosts who will never rest
until you sate us, and we
hear you scream, never sleeping,
watch your back, for we
are the voice in the static,
the shadow in your window,
bodies unburied because we
won’t let you cut us down and
we are the living ghosts who
will never let you rest.

Officer

you are no wick,
no steady burn:
you are a bomb,
touch and go,
a mine that strikes
whenever neared
by the wind, by
the innocent, by
bodies that you
mistake for shadows,
for insignificance.

you don’t know
how to disengage:
like a car that only
stalls or flies you
have no use, a
broken thing who
needs replacing,
no, needs an arrest,
a recurring threat
that needs disarmed.

Ellianie Vega is a poet and editor currently based in Pennsylvania. She is a recent graduate of Gettysburg College, where she studied English, queer theory, and Japanese. She is a member of the Academy of American Poets and enjoys nothing more than a summer storm.