Oh
for memories, as one of tears, shifting in a cradle; to develop this voice, as
living in mother, a nine month sabbatical; to then return, as high as
particles, to grip the wrists of a child; as to warn of ghosts, the coldest
shivers, in turn the mystery; for it couldn’t exist, to believe the apparition,
as churning through centuries; from soul to soul, as heritage and ancestor, as
disguised in a woman’s bosom; for this was mother, a hundred pages in, to
realize the texture; to nearly escape, this snowfield furnace, as to extract a
ghost; but what of prodigies, as sister to perish, as if stillborn; the neck
wrapped, the son commissioned, as a second coming. I carry this ghost, as
infused by ghosts, a woman to know our secrets; as calm as spirits, to
determine the outcome, as one familiar with cults. Laughter has perished. The
storms are cyclical; as peace is but a moment. Mother was taught, as
grandmother’s pupil, where aunty was well advanced; as to meet this spirit,
where ritual is form, to dabble in mixed magic; to stand in presence, the
midnight sun, as glowing in dungeons; for more the reasons, for believing the
cultics, as in believing in concretes; but both our lives, as slanted as
yogis’, to participate in pushing madness; as ever this brink, to summons the
Ghost, as a woman engages witchcraft, ever the eyes of one possessed; to carry
this fuse, as moving through grays, as from darks to lights; as in moving
elements, to venture winds, that nearer the fire forces; to imbue the human, as
supernatural, to maximize powers; for this was mother, a reflection of woman,
as to intoxicate ghosts; where to pause is fiction, one opened to pressures, as
for awakening phantoms.
