We live in a house
without ghosts or
previous tenants.
No one has died
or sold their soul
here,
and no one has done
unspeakable things
behind closed doors
here.
No one has endured
flaming words,
burning skin,
kicks and shoves
or broken bones
here.
There are no
spun dust dead cells
come alive as
night prowl swirlings
here,
and no manifestations
of such.
No leftover lives
here,
nothing left behind
here.
only peace
and quiet
here.
But not back
there
when I lived with her
before I lived
here
with you.
Back
there
she said I went crazy
when the neighbors asked
why I slept on the porch
there.
It would have been crazier
had I slept inside the house
there.
What happened
there
was worse than
the worst thing imaginable.
I would forever be changed
by what happened
there.
She let evil enter
there
from across the globe when
mother Russia sent it in
the suitcase of a boy.
When I met you
I knew
my porch sleeping days
were over,
whether
here
or
there,
quite frankly anywhere.
Our first house
was 50 years old
yet we were only
the second owners.
Family must have mattered
there.
The ghost was different
there,
not frightening, not angry,
more nostalgic,
he used to sit out
there
on the porch
in my chair at night,
sit
there
looking sad,
like he missed the place.
He didn’t mind us being
there
and I never felt threatened
there.
On many occasions
he knew that I knew
he was
there,
but he wouldn’t engage.
I felt sorry for him,
sitting out
there
all alone.
For a short while
we lived in a house
north of town.
We lived
there
before we lived
here.
The ghosts
there
were more like what
you’d expect from ghosts.
First it was
the hogs in the attic
followed by
the children in the night,
it wasn’t unsafe
it just didn’t feel right
there.
Someone wasn’t happy
there,
so we left
there
and came
here
and built this house of love.
Now we live where
there
are no ghosts,
at least not in the house.
Instead
the history in my head
is what haunts me.
To move it out,
to delete it
would mean to be dead
or maybe lobotomized,
so no thank you
I think I’ll learn to live with
these
ghosts.
These
that aren’t
there,
or
here,
they still are.
My father is 85 and tells me
that they prey on your weakness
when you get older.
He cannot even speak of them
for fear of being institutionalized
or put away, or deemed insane,
but I believe him when he tells me
that they come to him at night,
and although he cannot see them
they sit on his bed and remind him
of all the mistakes he has made
in his lifetime.
I look at him
and I can see his pain.
My ghosts tell me its what
I have to look forward to.