"The Children" by Linda Munson Peth
Laughter peals in Ghost
House.
Childish
patter filters down from the attic ceiling,
But
it is not all sainted and squealing.
No,
some of it is screaming, sighing,
Disrupting
our sleep.
We
awaken to find our room full of ghost children.
We
are not completely certain of their names,
Their
indefinite calls,
But
these walls ring and echo
As
they are drawn into our world.
The
curtain around our bed is shut,
Our
eyes closed tightly
Against
the noise, the weight of their cries.
Is
it possible that they are all ours?
Some
of these children have been born during the night.
Some
have always been, and some have come out of hiding.
We,
morning-after-wed-ones, cleave to each other,
Yet
open our bed to let them, pale and starving,
Shivering,
into the warmth already escaping.
Ephemeral,
their eyes devour us:
Do
they despise or worship our endeavors?
We
are their nutrition.
Our
affection, from which they extract their being,
Is
the source of their existence.
Seeing
this, you lure them, collect them,
Extracting
from them a promise,
Rewarding
them if they will just behave, lovely, a treasure.
You
save them from oblivion,
For
the sun's rays, filtering,
Are
melting them upon the carpet.
We
are not prepared for the unsettling
Prettiness
of our ghost children.
They
have taken us by surprise,
Opened
our eyes to numerous difficulties,
Unencountered
before.
However
perturbed we may be,
We
will keep and adopt them,
Down
to the smallest and
Most
wan of these progeny.
We
will give them a home
Where
they will never again be disturbed,
Cured
of their insatiable wandering.
(March 7, 1988)
