Extrapolar

By Susan Skeele

Dec 09, 2025

Extrapolar Ghosts in movies wipe strands of hair from their mouths, embrace the living Real ghosts cause rectangles of fog, momentary sensations of sinking or gliding Is that the air sobbing Are the stones of the house shifting their cracks I miss you that’s all and I’m not sure you’re gone What part of you would remain if it could Wouldn’t it be the part that could touch me I’m not reasonable your body is the part most certainly gone But wouldn’t you choose at least to show me your new shape in detail Not these flitters of glass I might mistake for migraine not these slivers of shadow that might be a cat’s tail in the mirror Are those words in the chimney now Can you see I’ve got my cheek pressed against the brick You wish you could whirl around right in front of me I’m not able to see such as you yet Not if I want to keep living in time, not if I still have things to do on this earth Is it a That earth, where you are, and when you are there is it a This earth and for you I am on That earth I can just about imagine your beautiful new cape I get glimpses colors without names angles without degrees edges without lines A reward for the way you greeted what peered at you from gardens, drain holes train platforms Blinkless eyes of squirrels and flowers People yawning on benches

the air of the day already used up I’m not sure what I’m hearing Is this what your flesh translates to now A shimmering anorak swirling and swirling around a cone of nothing Your face a soft blackness like the water between a jellyfish’s tentacles, whooshing and whooshing your song of the gone not gone Of course I am wrong— so limited! Now I understand you’re doing what you can to let me know nothing is nothing and it’s me that’s not able, not you that’s unwilling. I have to wait until I have nothing to see you Meanwhile I’ll take note of the lesser-known word that appears in three places in a single day, the rising mote in a falling nebula of dust, the cat staring fixedly at the wall above my shoulder I’ve got my ear against the headboard now and I think it’s obvious you would give me the solace of your weight if you could. I’m better off without What would it mean That bodies aren’t bodies that the Tthis and the Tthat are all mixed up intersecting collapsible and I never would get to swirl you around and swirl me around in sourceless light with our capes billowing our soft empty cone faces hooting I’m still not clear if everyone gets a cape or maybe just not such a beautiful one as yours For now, I have to extrapolate your devotion from these hints as I’ve had to do all along. Extrapolar, p. 2

Susan Skeele is a poet in her second year of the MFA Writing program at California College of the Arts. As a mother, teacher of kettlebell training, dance therapist and physical improviser, Susan connects to the life of the body as a rich source of information, sensory language and curiosity toward the world that deeply informs her poetry. After twenty-five years in the high desert of New Mexico, Susan is delighted to be exploring the fog-shrouded hills and botanical flourishes of San Francisco, accompanied by her introverted chocolate lab/pit bull, Riley, and her intrepid cats, Nick and Yuki.

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