Ghost Writer (Poetry)

Words fall and pain makes patterns in recycled sand,
acknowledging the anger that is Plath’s, pouring,
the subtle hand of Woolf working,
or the spirit of Rossetti breathing
God between the lines

where ink flicks, traces a graph of dotted darks
and resentment charts related ironies.
This is a women’s thing: simultaneous menstruation
smearing blood along the serif’s female font,
its pagan slant on life.

I’m the ghost writer gathering their scraps,
their sister echoes filling up the moon
who worries at high tide and waits for me
to write my epitaph.