The Haunted Ones

You like the haunted ones, don't you?

You like Maricela at midnight

With her black mantilla

And a red rose.

No Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm for you--

You like ravens, not robins;

Dropping your sewing and rushing outside

Whenever the storm flags go up.

She speaks only Spanish

And you speak only English

But you both eat meat always and only on Fridays

And laze through each torpid Sunday morning after everyone has gone,

Passing understanding

From her tongue to yours,

Lighting each other like yellow candles

In the unsanctified hour

That hurries past like a prayer card in a

Sudden and unexpected wind.

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