Dylan’s ghost lives at Grandma’s,
Downstairs, quiet, seldom seen.
At night Dylan lies within his magic ring
Of Thomas trains 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
Or rags or teeth or rattling sounds,
But something calling from the past.
Born in another house, dark and cold and broken,
Crouching 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”, “It’s a friendly 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.
And living with our ghosts we have forged a 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 help him speed the healing,
Or to even understand?