The Last Ghost

Before he goes, he turns

around, surveying things

one final time, making

sure that his memories

will all be found neatly

arranged by the new boy.

A model Corsair and a Zero

square-off on a doily

beneath a ceramic lamp

his mother painted. While,

overhead, an Enterprise,

his father’s handiwork,

slowly revolves in the dark

bedroom. Sightless eyes,

belonging to the stuffed

frogs he will leaving,

look up in silence at

the orbiting starship,

lost in whatever thoughts

their cotton brains contain,

unaware of what they are

to him: his family.

 

He taps his rocker and

it rocks, predictably,

keeping perfect time.

Part metronome, part throne,

it coordinates the headlights

careening along the wall

into his mirror. Those

lightning flashes at night

will not be missed. He’s glad

that dresser isn’t coming,

really. He has outgrown

the child inside. He flips

one of the handles up,

then flicks it down again,

to hear how it collides

against a plate of brass,

letting go of the past.

The noise it makes is nice.

So he lifts it up again,

so he can hear it crash

again, a kamikaze,

ending something grand.

Nosferatu

For Gavin

Your absences are fangs.
They plunge in, then withdraw
My soul. I feel your mouth
Fixed below my jaw:

The space where you should be
Nestled in, my neck,
Is empty as my bed.
I do not expect

To wake and find a pair
Of punctures in my throat,
My curtains flapping, or
A gothic-scripted note.

Everything will be
Normal: window cracked,
A pillow on the floor,
Door locked. You’ll be back

Tonight. You’re always there,
Behind me, like the Past,
A shadow I can’t shake.
How can the Future cast

A shadow back in time—
Seize me by the wrist,
Twist me around to face
Days which don’t exist

Yet? Is that power yours?
I half believe it’s so,
Since you are reading this.
I need you now. Although

I am not certain why
I ought to feel that way.
I know that you’ll be back
To torture me tonight.

Not stay.

A Shropshire Lad

Continuing on the A.E. Housman theme from yesterday, here is a little poem about a book I had lost and then rediscovered in Connecticut, as I was getting ready to move back to New York.



A Shropshire Lad

Digging through a damp, decaying box
Of poetry books stored in the garage,
I found the one I had been looking for
Grown rather green and moldy—an image

Which might have raised a ghostly smile beneath
The author’s clipped Victorian moustache.
How perfect Housman was the moldy one!
My only one! Lord, how we might have laughed!