It is hard to believe in a dead man,
a ghost,
a life,
a life of a ghost man….
a life that hands my limp direction
over to those that can control it.
They must have told him,
the people,
that his core was rotting,
that his brain was infested and crumbling?
That his daughter was sick with
raw nerves and would never get better?
If the bombs in Vietnam hadn’t sawed his
spirit away,
if his own father
hadn’t dangled lily liver from
the ceiling,
maybe he would have heard
the people,
the ghosts,
the whispers of his daughter’s twisted,
raw nerves grasping
for contact
and saved me from rotting with the same
crumbling infestation.
