The Ghost
In the corner of the room
a cheap white frame; the picture inside
shows an aged man, minted there
with a brimming sense of achievement, calmed
by a certain slow and quiet pride.
My daughter kisses the picture
now and then, scurrying to that small corner
whenever trouble threatens.
The man there has seen it all before,
how each one of us holds his own white sky,
letting it fold upwards into each one of his own dark eyes;
how each one of us elides the fateful missive sent
him, an opened secret from above or below;
how each one of us living speaks
in stillness to himself as though he were a ghost
already, a spirit seeking to prick the fabric
of the world he’s left behind,
hoping to needle the place it was that long ago
he’d signed with departure.
And between the two,
this framed wiseacre and my daughter,
I see my life past each day’s silent slaughter
turn in style between white and grey,
framed by the two known sides of love.
Omar Sabbagh
