Someone at the party said

Willie Nelson died today,

sudden invocation of his sudden

ghost. And Maw-Maw singing on the road again

and Willie, who had outlived her,

rolling down eternal highway, baptized

by salt water and yellow beer.

Elastic hours later, we learned

it was a hoax and like a mosquito sipping

the same bite Aubrey asked So

is Willie alive? Is Willie

alive? Do we know if Willie is

alive? I might have answered

with hot oil. One day

I’ll slide mothballs

from my father’s dresser, inherit

my mother’s cast-iron but

until then—a dream like

lavender oil burning

on an unsteady shelf:

my sister listening beside me to bells

and banjos in the valley. We hold Holy

Ghost hands, exhume neglected records,

play them with new mosquito thirst.