poetry

Ghosts

The first ghosts came from a darkened cave

black awakening from memories

not distant enough

too real to give comfort.

A warm summer evening

the last sunlight bends in

a curtain flits

onions slightly burnt, sugary

and pork chops jumping

in belligerent fat

my mother and aunt

a kitchen table cloth,

asking if I will marry,

teasing, saying

‘time is running out.’

Their eyes more real than my hand in the dark.

There is no repair in this

just long hollow breath

and the sleep lost

is just lost

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