Lock me down for the night
in the ghost’s house. I’ll come out
in the morning and tell you everything.
I’ll explain the halting voice
that reaches peak whisper-rasp
in the ears of the scoffing father.
I’ll explain the knocking doors
that stick rock chopsticks
in the mother’s head.
I’ll tell you all about
what the youngest child stares at
through the slats in his hell-closet.
Lock me down for the night
in the ghost’s house
and I’ll come out and tell you
how easy it is to raise the dead.
The unfinished business of rickety attachment
is what keeps them jerky and repetitive here,
monotonous and bored within these walls.
Nothing in there’s got an ounce of harm
in any ectoplasmic bone it shakes
as it strolls partway down the halls
and back again.
Lock me in with them
and I’ll come out and tell you:
I lived through worse
a long time ago when I was a kid like yours,
the one who lives here now, and what he fears most
isn’t the dumb ghost who’s hung on so long here,
but the one he might become if he doesn’t figure out
how to get past your fright and fear and learn to live.
Dark Matter 