It is a good day when the fight
is not yet over. If it is a good day
we may look to the million reasons
of the sky and see rather than
a lightning flash, a forgetful
cloud kingdom. We can say,
"so that is where our ghosts went."
What relief. We'd already checked
the cupboard. It is a good day
when we let that be the end of it.
It is a bad day when we hope as wax
dripping on skin. "Burn my hair, buttercup,"
we say to the flame, calling
on the ghosts to arbiter our disputes.
Worm-worshipped, the holes
in their skin have been filled with dusk,
and their clothes, rag-like, embarrass
us in their dated fashion. We hold
family photographs, beaming,
and tell them we're all grown up now.
It is a bad day when we argue
whether to let the bleeding stop.
We pour a goblet of mead, set an extra place
at the table. We are all friends
in death, so perhaps — O thin wisps
of history — you may be the great discoverers
of how so many of us have gone
so wrong. No one is perfect. But why not?
Of course, the ghosts must be tired,
curse us for not offering them coffee.
Apologies. They slam what passes
for fine porcelain to the floor, levitate
a chair or two, and we really can't blame
them. It is a good day when we see
the weariness in their eyes as they struggle
to remember who they are, and we may think
they mouth the word "sorry" before departing
like wind to the aloof stars, feigning
understanding beyond the scope of language
to let us down gently. It is a bad day
when they give us the answers we crave.
Mark L. Anderson was Spokane's third poet laureate and his first poetry collection, Scarecrow Oracle, arrives in May.