wildscape. literary journal

A Ghost Story
by Bri Gearhart Staton

The second you walked out 
the door, the kids started fighting. They wrestled,
laughing at first, until the crack of a slap
stilled them, just for a beat, before the righteous 
scream. I try to search 
online for that article about how children
are three times or thirty times or three hundred times 
worse for their mothers than anyone else. Something
to do with safety. I want to send it to you
at the airport. I want you to feel my martyrdom
in the pulp of your teeth. But before I can find
it, there’s a cat food monsoon on the linoleum. 
The kitten is climbing the blinds. There’s a ghost 
hunt going on with crumpled
Post-It note clues clinging to the walls, the backs 
of chairs. In nine-year-old
handwriting: Ghosts, are you here?
Circle yes or no. What do you miss 
about your life? Write it below. 
Isn’t motherhood a ghost story? Invisible
hands, poltergeisting
away the wreckage of a long 
day. Apparating over small, sleeping 
bodies, searching for the rhythm of breath.  
What do you miss 
about your life? Write it below.
You send me a picture of your window
seat. Someone, down 
the hall, is singing. A wilted sock grips the arm 
of the couch. I think I see 
the curtains 
move. 
I wonder if I could push 
the pen
from across the room. 

about the author // Bri Gearhart Staton