Resources on poetry by the poets themselves



A ghost touched me. Elizabeth Norris. Don’t laugh.
It’s true; her hand on my cheek, cool as a flannel
dropped in a drained bath.

Felt by a ghost, me;
don’t grin. I nearly screamed- chill fingers
under my chin, a sister of ice, she,
coaxing me in,

in, to the cold space
of her past. I gasped as she read my lips
with her fingertips, Tudor, dead, laid her head
on my shoulder

like a sad friend. Poor Elizabeth,
she touched me, here, in my heart- for how, now,
though we never met, could we ever part?