The people in my family see ghosts.
There's no ritual, no blood between them -
the same generation, different ground under different trees -
no circle nor spells.
Just the commonality of choosing to die
in the same sundown town.
The requirement is the silence.
Not the peace, not the sound of wind and birdsong quiet, no
it all gives way every day to the still. The held breath.
There is no laughter. No footsteps.
The only thing can cut in is the hard sound of a hurrying motor.
There are hoards, sure,
of things and of traumas; moth-eaten memory
the spirits can swirl and rise up from,
but there is also the cold ground and the darkness
calling their hearts to come out -
away from home.
My elders conjure ghosts and I cannot see them but I believe them when they do.
Once I sat invited to a table filled with shadows.
Later, weeks later, when those of us living sat defeated in the Church
I felt our former host brush lovingly past my shoulders.
