Recidivism (Poetry)

The ghost our father killed has come

back to life. Clawed it’s way

out of the earth under our feet.

Yesterday we went to drop flowers on its grave –

we do this weekly, a ritual of

appeasement to the wronged –

and found it empty as a godless soul.

Where is it?

Later we heard it weep behind our backs

in the dark of night.

We didn’t scream, just held hands

in a big circle and whispered prayers

like in a convent.

But that must have angered it, for

it stomped it’s feet and shattered

a few plates in the kitchen.

A ghost with a bad temper.

Today it took form and launched an attack.

There are six of us, stuck in the past;

a ghost transported to the future – with an

awful temper, and fatal instincts.

We found the first brother hanging from the ceiling.

The second brother had eaten his death.

Our sister who was about to conceive

had torn her flesh and brought out her child.

Now, there are three of us left,

stuck in the past with a ghost with a bad temper

transported to the future, biding it’s time

before the next attack.

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