Ethel Rackin

Vignette

  • She could hear a barcarole as if she were in a new house: someone else’s. Rolls of questions kept coming, sticking to earlier ones, increasing in gravity, unspooling. Where were her poems? The ferry of childhood? What had become of her dead friend’s books—too many to keep track? It wasn’t that she’d died exactly but had to come through: through a co-op and a girls’ bathroom where an old woman made fun of the her.  Meanwhile, I could hear my own assassin and realized this was beyond strange. No stupid girl I. Enjoy your life, said the ghost.
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