Rolling Over in Her Grave

I straddled you once, on the green
chair that was slowly unwrapping its
skin from its thin, weathered bones.

The lights in the tree were on, those
sinking, desperate things. I was
pretending and you pretended back

until we weren’t anymore. In the bathtub
we passed a bottle of Whiskey beneath
my chandelier and went wetly to bed.

Our shirts clung to our breasts and we
used my ouija board to summon my
grandmother rolling over in her grave.