An Oblique Ghost

 An Oblique Ghost

(“Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return there; the Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.” Job 1:21)

I have sat bent in half
on the stairs into the garage
with its concrete floor and mildew smell.
I have waited to confess what everyone already knew,
and had not passed the test,
but had not lied. Had hoped grace was in the air
though I feared I would lose everything.

I was naked while they stared.
I was white, pasty, such an oblique ghost
that my skins showed the stains from every tear;
they were rivulets down my temples, my arms,
my chest and my thighs. I should have learned how
not to cry.

I don’t go out much these days. Don’t look for new friends,
old friends sometimes scare me. My wife, my children, my
beloved grandchild and my dog, my social circle is safe
but small.

I have sat with my darkness longer than most. (Although,
that is not fair, I have no measure to compare your darkness
to mine.)
Pain heals nothing.

I am not cynical, and maybe bitter. But there was a moment
lifetimes ago when I heard laughter rise from hallways and alleys,
alpine lakes and friends always too silly to dwell on the
consequences for long.

Today I might call you, take you away from the crashing crowd
yelling at the asphalt concert,
to a quiet café for an hour or two,
and ask you,
or even beg you

To let me cry as long as I need
and to allow me to say anything, anything at all
once again.