I have stayed with a lot of people, over the years, at our place. And, some
day, I was going through old stuff, pictures,
letters, notes... And I see a photo I don't know who
were in the picture, and who left it. It stands
there in my hands like an accursed thing,
an outcast, or a sacrifice to the
unknown spirit. I stare at it,
and still it doesn't bear
any resemblance
to anyone,
to any
of
the people who have shared the place with me, but it must have been left by
any one of the ten or so people or families I have stayed with. It is the
shadow I have always thought is in the rooms, and a prophet and countless
medium spirits said
there were two children in the rooms. I could see the
two children, and the rest of the photo seems
spoiled with dirt, smudgy, moth eaten in
places, and dusty. There is the rich girl,
she is unhappy, and I mean to ask
her why, but I can't ask
her. I don't know
how to talk
to
spiritual beings. She is tanned under a white dress with spaghetti straps.
It's obvious she is bored with her
richness, and then, there is a poor boy. Guilty?
Doubt? Yet it's a face that echoes that of
a poor child. The two children gaze on
the camera's foci, bored because
they have no idea what
melancholy is, and
the rest of
the
photo seems spoiled. I have been staring at the spoiled spaces for some
time now, and then I start seeing forms imaging.
I am seeing a baby. I look again, and yes there is a baby,
like images on a dirty window, dusty window panes,
like two children's handprints, as if the baby was
delivering priestly blessings. But, I know this
isn't a pure baby, a pure spirit, that I am
seeing. I realize in my poem's title I
should have included this
baby, this child
who sees,
who
knows, an imp, a little demon (are they the same?), a mischievous child.
This is the baby that has
blanketed me with shadows I didn't
know. The baby's arms points to
places in the sky where stars
should have been. His face
stands straight up like he
is trying to give the
wind something
to dry its
hands
on.
This
is the
boy who
had turned
into the arms
of a mothering
sleep, in this house