Rhiannon Willson
Introducing the Ghost of my Mother to the Guy I am Fucking
When she appears, he turns
almost as pale as she looked
in the days before she died.
She glows now, that unholy
spectral kind of glow, glorious
and terrifying all at once.
He whimpers, pulls the covers tighter
around him. Did she really
have to turn up before he’d
even had a chance to shower?
He’s usually more put together
than this, I assure her. She
does not look convinced.
He burrows closer to me and
I sigh. He’s usually less cowardly
than this, I tell her.
We will fight about this later.
He will accuse me of not mentioning
that my mother sometimes appears
as an apparition and I will remind him
of all the times I told him
I was going to visit her, he will retort
that he thought I was talking about
her grave and I will roll my eyes,
are we really fighting over this?
My mother’s ghost can talk – we
have lengthy conversations about
all the little inconveniences of life
and unlife – but for these first meetings
she usually just likes to stare, likes
to give a ghoulish howl sometimes
for special effect. It’s a game we play.
A test. This particular guy is
guy I am fucking
turned best friend
turned best friend I am fucking
and if he passes this test – if
he survives this encounter
without pissing himself and even
asks when they can meet again –
maybe he will become
something more.
Bio
Rhiannon Willson is a queer poet who spends her spare time playing scrabble with old ladies and trying to learn how to roller skate. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Royal Rose Mag, Dreams Walking, and Sturgeon Review, among others. She can be found at rhiannonwillson.co.uk.
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