In Lieu of the Expressionist

The Ghosts That Haunt Us

I trail my fingers along this cold wall

In the evening hours, touching the frames

That hold those portraits of ancestors gone.

There is a certain haunting here,

In the way that their eyes follow my walk.

These people who have left Earth

For the land beyond, yet still present

And bearing down on my life.

I often wonder what they think

When I take his hand in mine and

Roll and stretch every knuckle and finger.

Maybe this is an act of divination,

Tracing the lines in my lover's palms,

Nudging forth questions unasked

And answers unwanted.

We sit in the remembrance of this house,

The wooden table scratched and scuffed.

If I should cover it with my grandmother's tablecloth,

Would that hide away the worry?

If I should turn their pictures to the wall,

Would they no longer be able to watch us?

He used to take his silver cross off

Before climbing into bed with me.

I used to soak in his arms afterward,

When those old disparagements

Resurfaced in my mind once more.

Is this the burden of straying from

The path that's set before us?

What is autonomy when to truly live

Is to grapple with their disappointment?

Of all the lovers who've swallowed my sins

This one has been the most devoted.

But even now, in the somber stillness

Of a quiet kitchen or the biting breeze

While sitting on the porch,

I will cry as I witness his steps falter.

Perhaps this tempest isn't relegated

To me and my kind. Perhaps,

This is the summation of wills opposed,

Like the prongs of tuning forks

Bending in differing directions.

Or the road divided, one leading to

'Salvation' and the other 'Damnation.'

How do you save someone who

Was never lost to begin with?

What is righteousness when it

Conceals death and destruction?

Can you ever exorcise ghosts that

Will never truly die?

I love him anyway, some days

Turning from their gaze and others

Standing in full affront of that glory.

In the haze of sunlight trickling

Through the floating curtains and

In the gleam of moonlight as

We stand knee-deep in the river,

Soaked in our worn-out Sunday best.

This is a thing untakable,

Even in the moments when I know

We're not alone and I can hear

Their malicious whisperings

Creeping back to the edge

Of my consciousness. 

This is our secret baptism.

Secret not wrapped in shame

But only belonging to us.

We have washed this blood

From our white regalia

And now drape ourselves in it.

This is the happiness that

They don't get to peer into.

We will return to that house,

Trailing this new water in our wake.

We will walk past their fixed faces

And those ghosts will watch us 

Dance of this temple's altar.