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.