and she laughs. oh, baby—baby, this damn world’s been ending
for damn ever. she plunks her translucent body

down on your blank side of the bed. you, that other ghost,
who did not come to comfort me. the mattress is memory foam

and so does not register her weight, but if it wasn’t,
it would: she is that kind of ghost. substantive. bodily

as a weighted blanket. carrie fisher holds my face, tucks a lock
of oily hair behind my ear. so: it’s ending. so it’s ending!

so? even at 10% opacity her eyes are dark and twinkling. her phantom
palm is warm against my cheek. when’s the last time you ate something?

i don’t have a good answer for her. she reaches toward
my nightstand, maracas the pill bottle. honey, take your meds. i’ll go

run you a bath. and you—peering into my closet—find something scandalous
to wear. carrie fisher laughs again, and this time i hear the sorrow in it. i mean. baby,

the world is ending! we might as well
be divine.