there’s a ghost in my garden,
cutting the grass,
raking leaves,
and picking the year’s first strawberries.
he stands on the patio smoking,
grey cap with the celtic cross pinned
just above the brim
sheltering his eyes as he watches
the yellow skies,
counting magpies.
𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑠𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑤,
𝑡𝑤𝑜 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑗𝑜𝑦.
sometimes, when the sky grows dark,
i can hardly tell the two of you apart.

you told us last summer,
over salad and bitter sunshine,
that there was a ghost inside of you.
your weeks-long haunting
had us shaking in our beds,
while you covered all the mirrors
and picked your skin to shreds.
when they asked you in the hospital
𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑣𝑖𝑜𝑢𝑠 𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑡𝑠?
you told them that you couldn’t,
not while you had us to protect.
i choose to believe that the psychosis
wasn’t speaking just then.

somewhere around the centre of the episode,
you told me you were writing
your autobiography.
there are no photographs of you
between the time you left home
and the time you met my mother,
but i’ve heard tales of bedsits,
bolshevism, and blue hair.
𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑒𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑑,
𝑓𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑜𝑦𝑠,
and all the things never said to your father
before he was no longer there.

i wonder if you both knew silence like this,
a house so quiet
i want to throw bricks
through the kitchen window.
at the dinner table,
i swallow down the urge to ask,
𝑑𝑜 𝑦𝑜𝑢 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑛𝑜 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑚𝑒?
𝑜𝑟 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑛𝑜 𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑟𝑔𝑦 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑐ℎ 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑎𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚?
you’re watching the screen
with sad, glazed eyes,
and the pills send you to bed at 6pm.

there’s a ghost in my garden,
setting fires and shooting arrows.
𝑓𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑠𝑠
as i reach for his stained-glass hands.
𝑠𝑖𝑥 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑔𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑒𝑛 𝑣𝑖𝑟𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑖𝑎 𝑜𝑛 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ,
while the magpies chorus carols of forgiveness.

i always thought we’d bury you in the garden.