Ghosts
by Lyle Rosdahl
I see ghosts. They accost me in their sleep. Hundreds of them. When I wake up (after a long night of half-waking), I think, What wold ghosts want with me? I have nothing for them. But at night they're there again, watching, tapping my shoulder as I lay awake. Sometime even the drinking doesn't stop them.
Last night they began muttering. I lay in the gloom watching them swirl unsteadily in the light breeze of the ceiling fan -- their susurrant voices emitting smoke that held for just a moment before the stuttering wind from the blades dissipated them unsteadily. Their vaporous thoughts became more pronounced until at dawn the room misted with accusations and expletives.
I fear that tonight they will become hard. That their accusations will turn on me. I am powerless to stop it: time, in military increments, continues. In the garden, flowers wilt in the heat of the afternoon. The dirt is cracked in places. My tongue feels thick in my mouth.
Lyle, powerful prose poem! Many lovely and surprising lines. What I really enjoyed was the unreliable narrator and the blending of boundaries here between those ghosts and the anguish of the speaker. Nice work!
did you have this up before? I meant to comment earlier--this is really assertive and affecting, feels honest.
Thank you both for the comments.