Veranda phantoms

A conversation. My mother passed when I was 11, I wanted to create a poem that felt like a liminal space, between life and death, ambiguous and a bit ominous.

I sat next to my mother 

on an old wicker settee,

grasping the neck of the bottle of Barolo

like a blackmailer extorting a bribe

                    The old veranda had lost its charm to time

                     the varnish peeling off like dried petals from a rose

                    And the biting cold was turning my skin turquoise

“You’re freezing, shall we go inside?”

“Ghosts aren’t allowed in”

We sipped quietly.

               

                        The crickets in the far off prairie chirped incessantly

                         a requiem I did not dare to interrupt.

We’re not types to indulge in idle chatter

So I lit a cigarette, a small light in the dark

that had become my life. 

                            

                            “Did you even smoke when you were alive?”

                            “I did a lot of things you’ll never know”

The toxic smoke was more tangible than our figures

wraiths within a fading frame of memory

haunting darkroom prints. 

I stood up.

                                 “Will you leave me here alone?”
                                “No. You needn’t worry. I’ll join you soon.”