The Spirit of the Staircase Looks Over Its Shoulder

From this pastel terrain
mountain-air suspires.
Its great breath penetrates rock, inbeing
& bone. We float
or it just seems we levitate,
unaccustomed as we are to the altitude,
this weather cleft
from supra-natural light.Once, I believed a ghost visited me.
My bedroom chilled, the sheets
slid from me, & each time I closed my eyes
rushing wind filled my head; if I opened
my eyes, the harsh sound subsided
but I still could not gather
the slipping away sheets.

Here, brisk, starving air.
Does Santa Fe’s ancient charge
unnerve you too? Chariots
of rain drive us into an art gallery’s
garden. We steal
away under the umbrella
of a trellis, witnessed by sculptures
& glazed mosaic horses.

Who’s to say whether
what occurred that night
in my haunted room
was imagination strung out
& sleep deprived, or premonition?

Back inside the Inn,
the fireplace warms our bright skin
but cannot absolve
the persistent pang of saudade
smoldering inside me
while that eluding,
near holy thing trapped
in the corner of my eye waits,
an animated landscape,
backscatter of dusk,
ripe alpenglow.

About the Author: Flower Conroy’s poetry has appeared in Serving House Journal, BlazeVox, Saw Palm, American Literary Review, Psychic Meatloaf, The LABLETTER, Interrobang?!, Menacing Hedge, and other journals. She is currently an MFA student at Fairleigh Dickinson University. Her chapbook “Escape to Nowhere” was published by Rain Mountain Press.