Ghosts

When she leaves, it will be because
you have driven her away
with your fears, your anger, your indifference.

Armed with that secret knowledge
all women have of men,
she will be a little sorry for you,
a bit puzzled
by your self-destructive nature.

She will become a ghost,
like all the others
who have left the key to the house of your life
on the kitchen table.

But you will not be free of her,
just as you are still possessed by the others.
They rattle around the circumference of your days
like a marble in a jar.
At night you hear them moving about the living room and the hallway.
Their scent clings to pillows and bedclothes,
their voices follow you like footsteps
down the stairwell of your sleep.
In dreams they all return,
like a Greek chorus,
with cryptic messages on their lips.
Often they are kind
their wounds are hidden by a grace
that will always confound you.

And now this one appears,
on the periphery of those dreams,
watching the others,
mouthing their words
as if rehearsing a part.

and she holds the truth
like a teacup
in the soft nest of her palms,
and breathes on the fragile porcelain vessel
before spreading her hands
and letting it drop
to smash about her feet like a scream.

Here she will turn
with no sign of movement,
all emotion drained from her face,
and, over her shoulder,
she will clearly say,
“You have always wondered
what it was we saw in you.
Perhaps you should have worried more
about what we did not find.”

                                           Jeff Rath