The ghosts in the garden
We heard voices in the attic for a week
until they crawled into the bedroom
walls. Mother called the parish priest
after the pots started clanging
in the middle of the night and
woke the neighbors. Father Tom
went missing in our house
for three hours. We found him
shaking and mute, curled up
in my closet. After the dresser
was dragged across the floor,
mother packed my brothers and left
this house of walls full with memory,
slowly being erased—the faces in pictures
being emptied before my eyes.
Mother can’t you see?
it is only the ghosts in the garden
crawling in through my window to play
and it is o so nice
to finally have friends.
J. David is from Cleveland, OH and edits poetry for Flypaper Magazine.