A person needs just a little space to live.
Her tiny room is dark, lifeless.
Pictures “adorn” every inch of wall.
His mother and the saints suffer.
“There’s nothing good to eat here. Look at that ugly thing they brought me.”
She points to an innocent piece of chocolate cake,
that I’d gladly devour if I lived in her space,
I let her believe I’m kind to bring her homemade fish.
It makes her happier than to know what is
fast food – she never approved.
And why does she eat corn flakes with every meal?
Because she can
still possess feedom’s ghost.
Only ghosts willingly see her now.
Obligation mixed with love makes me visit.
But truth is truth,
most times, I’d rather not go.
Not because I fear the ghosts,
or Jesus’ painfully tortured look,
his mother’s and other martyrs’
portrayal of absence – no heaven on earth.
But I must fear… something.
There is certainty in her eyes.
She gives me five little packets of graham crackers she’d saved,
and a little bracelet someone made.
I leave contemplating her little place,
to live or die,
we need just a little space.
(Submitted to Dverse Poets, open link night.)