Naomi Lazard
THE SECRET LIFE OF GHOSTS
After the last of the last goodbyes
when rain unwinds its beaded threads along the panes,
I come from the table of friends, still hungry
for what will never be offered again.
When birds in their nests are alone with their dreams
I open the window to let in the night,
its spirits who walk, hand in transparent hand.
They turn to each other without warning;
each one asks the same question at the same moment.
In the rains of our only season
Bamboo rattle their stalks and click
with the sound of furious needles knitting.
The lamps in the corridor are turned off;
only the wild arms of the rain are left ,
fingers plaiting the loosened ends of wind.
While the trees on the lawn are lashed into tears
I hear those footsteps fall
at midnight on the glistening tiles.
We come to the edge of our own private precipice,
stand there and lean over.
After I've left and am left
with my striped bathrobe , my book
and two pillows side by side,
the tree killed by the storm is hacked up for firewood;
flames of a thousand matches make a single pyre.
We who were there and are no longer anywhere
sleep in our separate beds , each by its own river.
Our ghosts burn all their boats behind them.