Poem of the Day , 2 - 17
Ghost
by Paul Mariani
After so much time you think
you ' d have it netted
in the mesh of language . But again
it reconfigures , slick as Proteus .
You ' re in the kitchen talking
with your ex - Navy brother , his two kids
snaking over his tattooed arms , as he goes on
& on about being out of work again .
For an hour now you ' ve listened ,
his face growing dimmer in the lamplight
as you keep glancing at your watch
until it ' s there again : the ghost rising
as it did that first time when you ,
the oldest , left home to marry .
You ' re in the boat again , alone , and staring
at the six of them , your sisters
& your brothers , their faces bobbing
in the water , as their fingers grapple
for the gunwales . The ship is going down ,
your mother with it . One oar ' s locked
and feathered , and one oar ' s lost ,
there ' s a slop of gurry pooling
in the bottom , and your tiny boat
keeps drifting further from them .
Between each bitter wave you can count
their upturned faces -- white roses
scattered on a mash of sea , eyes fixed
to see what you will do . And you ?
You their old protector , you their guardian
and go - between ? Each man for himself ,
you remember thinking , their faces
growing dimmer with each oarstroke .
Ghost
by Paul Mariani
After so much time you think
you ' d have it netted
in the mesh of language . But again
it reconfigures , slick as Proteus .
You ' re in the kitchen talking
with your ex - Navy brother , his two kids
snaking over his tattooed arms , as he goes on
& on about being out of work again .
For an hour now you ' ve listened ,
his face growing dimmer in the lamplight
as you keep glancing at your watch
until it ' s there again : the ghost rising
as it did that first time when you ,
the oldest , left home to marry .
You ' re in the boat again , alone , and staring
at the six of them , your sisters
& your brothers , their faces bobbing
in the water , as their fingers grapple
for the gunwales . The ship is going down ,
your mother with it . One oar ' s locked
and feathered , and one oar ' s lost ,
there ' s a slop of gurry pooling
in the bottom , and your tiny boat
keeps drifting further from them .
Between each bitter wave you can count
their upturned faces -- white roses
scattered on a mash of sea , eyes fixed
to see what you will do . And you ?
You their old protector , you their guardian
and go - between ? Each man for himself ,
you remember thinking , their faces
growing dimmer with each oarstroke .
