Alex Rettie

“Can you see him? Do you see him?”

“Miss Lewis! Young lady!”

Her mouth shuts to, her eyes roll back.

The girl in mourning black

presses on her wrist. “NO!”

“Do not touch me. Do not!

Do not!” Eyes refocused, forearms taut

and pressed into the table, she begins:

“I am Bull Elk, one of twins

who speak to all the dead.”

“And can you see Robert … the departed?”

Min twitches. Tears of sweat start

slithering down her wrists. “I said

can you see Robert?” the father –

a gentleman possessed of

pocket watch and greyish eyes –

repeats. “NOW! NOW!” Min cries –

“A uniform. His wounds still fresh.”

“Oh, Robert! Can you hear us? Are you there?”

asks the woman at Min’s right.

“I hear you, Mother. It’s alright.”

Min’s voice has gone deeper now.

“Praise God! We’ve missed you so.”

“Oh Mother, Father, Sis – I know.”

Through the curtains, Foleshill blooms

eager June against red bricks and grey.

“We are not in our tombs.

Our sorrow has gone right away.”

After, she sits in Mr. Prior’s motorcar –

A girl with guarded eyes

that tear a bit as she tries

to think of the one pound six

and not of Bedworth and her Nan,

or of the track the mild, old man,

who teaches her his tricks,

keeps tracing up her thigh.