The ghosts in the garden 

j. david

 

 

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.

twitter: @lookingatlilacs

unnamed.jpg