It is not needed, Mama Ghost, for me
to bleat, “Mama Ghost! Mama Ghost! Mama
Ghost!” each time we meet. Unlike the fruit tree
you will not bloom. I know that in Ghana
ghosts of mothers weep blood while their breasts ache
with milk never to be tasted. Come here,
little mother, I’ll do it for your sake.
I don’t need to call out your name to hear
heartache. I’ll drink you dry. Make your chill-blue
bones flame into wild honey. Suck so hard
even the dead will gasp in pure delight.
Mama Ghost, give me ectoplasmic goo,
the ghost milk, in you. Feed me on graveyard
dust from your nipples as I suck and bite.