She believes her ancestors
can see her Facebook page

so she riddles it with flashbacks
and gratitude

hoping to appease 
the watching spirits, hoping

to quell the dreams 
that overpower her

in the middle of the night
she wakes

sweating out memories.
“He was a good man,” she types

above a picture of him
behind the pulpit.

“He was a good man,”
don’t haunt me 

“Everybody said so.”