Poetry

Seneca Hill Ghost

You’re driving. You see a running woman towing hard by hand a running girl, maybe six. Both barefoot. They’re in old nightdresses. They don’t respond to your shouting. They run with one mind up a long hill. The road is lit by the moon like the sheeny side of a ribbon. The woman looks once at you, her terror past language. At the crest of the hill, they both wink out of view like a switched- off light. You’ll never see either again. It’s the tamest of ghost stories. Bloodless, yet none more saturated, seeping in fronds up flannel hems,…

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