The voices whisper just outside
my ability to understand their words
when spirits would come and sit
in her desk chair or on the counter.
She would ask me who they were
and what they were saying
and I would have to tell her
I don’t know.
But we both knew they were there
even though she was
the only one who could see them.
So are they here to visit me?
Hanging out in the kitchen
or dining room
while I go about my day
doing the dishes and paying bills.
I wonder if there will be a bright light
to reveal them
as guides or tormentors or just
passers-by waiting at a station
for the next train.
He insists on barking at the angels-
Their feathers rustling as they perch along the walls of the hall and her room-
Watching as the communion of saints beat a path to her door.
He is alert to the folding of wings as they settle
She told me that this life
Is hard to let go of.
Knowledge deep now,
As the blood and bone she created in me.
Wants to continue beating, breathing-
Though the spirit is chomping at the bit
To go home.
So they come and visit-
Those who have returned to hold her hand along the way.
I almost feel that I should be the good hostess
As these venerable women were,
And bake a pound cake,
Offer sweet tea and lemonade.
They pass the time, laughing,
Talking of hunting trips
And rabbits loose in the yard.
Friends and relations gathered for her coronation,
As the small dog barks
At the heavenly host.