by Mike Descamp
ghost lives at Grandma's,
Downstairs, quiet, seldom seen.
At night Dylan lies within his magic ring
Of Battlebots and Legos.
The ghost watches from the stairwell
And needs no speech to murder sleep.
Describe the spirit? The image twists; slips away.
No death's head crone,
No rags or teeth or rattling sounds,
But something calling from before.
In another house dark and cold and broken it crouched
Behind a door,
Who knows what's real, and to whom, and how manifest?
We wise Libras, anxious to rewrite the past, console:
"There are no ghosts," or "It's a friendly ghost,"
Or "You can talk with your ghost."
Glancing at the darkness while we reassure.
For we know our own.
Alcohol, rejection, rage, abuse, neglect
The hook is still caught in the bone; the pain endures.
But living with our ghosts we have forged a kind of peace.
Now we can name them.
Dylan has no words yet
To flesh his phantom or to exorcise it.
How can we give him our voice, our years,
To speed the healing
Or to even understand?