THE GHOST OF HER
- Jun 6
- 1 min read
By Mike O'Brien
Dazed, I walk through the house
In pursuit of the ghost of her.
A bookmark reveals
Where she’d finished reading...for now.
Her hand would have smoothed that page,
Warmly caressed the print.
Though her hands were often cold;
Her eyes burned, processing the words,
Triggering thought,
The kind of thought that transports,
Leaving me stranded.
The blanket she kept
On the back of her chair,
Slumbers like a sleeping cat.
She wrapped it around her legs in the evening.
Her legs were often cold.
Hugged in its fleecy fibres,
The smell of her soap.
Her pen and notes like petals of hope
Scattered as her projects demanded.
Her knitting needles lie redundant
Like workers aching for labour;
The row counter frozen in calculation.
Her balls of wool, like rainbow eggs,
Nest, rest inert, unwoven, unwarmed
As life is unravelled without her.
So many loose ends,
With no time to make amends.
Dropped stitches leave me empty-handed,
Grasping at ashes and silence,
Skulking through the house
In pursuit of the ghost of her.