by Abigail McFee
In Michigan, the repair man told me the historic
building I now lived in—maroon with green
trim, on the corner of Liberty & Division—
had been a hospital after the war. After that,
I couldn’t sleep. Convinced ghosts hovered
on the high ceilings, sure the odd pane
of glass in the bathroom door was held over
from surgeries. My roommate counted forks aloud
to see if any were missing. I couldn’t remember
ever being fucked, though I had been, nightly,
only weeks before. I hadn’t asked which war.
Bought myself parrot tulips from the flower shop,
surprised they looked like what they were called,
maroon striped green. If I paid $30 for a bouquet
and got 10 days out of it, that’s a few dollars
per day. Or I could pay more up front and discount
the end, the days I watched the feathers fall
open, darken, and recede. Misheard the radio
say “an estate” of becoming as if becoming
was something one could own, which would
mean, for the time being, having nothing.
Listen to the poem here:
Tulips. Photo credit: C. Finch
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Abigail McFee is a poet and Nebraska transplant who still loses forks and loves tulips. Her first home in Ann Arbor, 320 S. Division, was a private hospital from 1920-1940, but the only ghosts were from her past.
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This is an original poem, brought to you by Poet Tree Town, a Washtenaw-based poetry-in-public initiative and celebration of local poets. Find out more about Poet Tree Town on Instagram and Facebook, or say hello at [email protected].
