The Ghost Sonata
Immoral and brave,
I ignore church bells and the threats of hell.
The cripple reaches for me.
I have nothing for him—
Not his pencils, nor his pleas.
I will not push his chair.
Your whole life has been a fairy tale,
A single thread joining it together—
The leitmotif broken,
Pink lace in shards on the floor.
I am the caretaker,
Sunday’s child full of grace, fallen.
The clock has stopped.
The marble lady in the square regards me with disdain.
She has never seen such a broken masterpiece—
Sitting in a closet, eyes unable to see the day.
I can’t stand the light.
Pretty Polly, bright blue budgie.
Polly, whistle and sing for us, blonde girl.
When a house gets old, it gets moldy.
And when people sit around tormenting each other for so long,
They go mad.
Be quiet, Polly.
My name is Susan.
I can’t wipe the past clean.
Oh hyacinth, flower of my soul—
Innocent and reborn.
A Dream Play
Oh, Daughter of Indra—
Descended to Earth,
Through Daddy’s clouds and thunder.
His lightning pierces the anthracite sky,
As you fall, fall.
You want to know what it’s like
To be human—
Feet sunk in clay,
The mud and blood, the failing flesh.
Why is it so hard to breathe?
You have left the second world and entered a third.
Hating the filth, pushing to the light,
Only to bloom and die.
Wrapped in your shawl,
Absorbing the world’s pain—
My child, the rough wool will never be big enough.
The silver thread is snapped.
You are earthbound.
Then you know what poetry is.
Then you know what dreams are.
Then you know what it means to love.
Dreams are always better than reality.
The struggle between the torment of pleasure,
And the suffering that brings release.
Oh, daughter of the rain,
Do you return to the clouds unscathed?
Or will you bring our supplications to the throne of heaven?