We used to know this: every opening is a door for ghosts. Even a yawn's not innocent. A wound breaks the body's gates open. What enters? Weather wisdom. Phantom voices. Sadness. Gentleness. The smell of apples. Why do they say a leg is lost? We know what happened.                                     A ship burial: the splash, the kiss of salt, the pale light going slowly out, the weighted canvas blossoming open, amputated legs and hands rocking free — soft green lights in the deep and changing sea. Reprinted with permission from Ghost Maps: Poems for Carl Hruska Copyright © 2003 by Erin Noteboom Wolsak & Wynn

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