The Ghost in the Light and Warrior Rest
Photo Courtesy | Melaina Williams
BY MELAINA WILLIAMS
The Ghost in the Light
There is a ghost of a woman
in my house of few windows and lamps,
tidying the children’s toys,
adding paprika and olive oil to the fish,
kissing my husband at the door,
packing my purse for work.
Her presence, both benevolent and
melancholy, unnerve me.
I know all who walk my house.
I stare into the bathroom mirror . . .
a notion of light!
Maybe if I were to bring in more light,
I could see her clearly,
request her name,
thank her and ask her to leave.
And not any light
It would have to be natural to expel this woman.
So, I set out to capture the sun.
I pull all the shades to their end
and move the furniture.
Still the same shadows.
Still the same dark spaces for her
to shuffle through.
I return to the mirror;
marvel at the unevenness in my nostrils, lips, eyes,
then suddenly . . .
Mirrors!
Mirrors to capture the sun.
Mirrors set on mantles,
nailed and leaned to walls,
large and small,
bejeweled and wooden.
Mirrors across from one another.
Mirrors. Enough for the sun to peek
into my few windows and be multiplied
angle by angle.
Mirrors reflecting themselves,
warming the chilled rooms.
Now I will see her.
Now she will not be able to hide
in my dark places.
Will she be angry?
Will she become a siren,
breaking every glass,
fighting for her quiet dimly lit life?
I walk the house vigilantly
searching for her.
My reflection speeding past mirrors.
Little mirrors reflecting the sweat beads on my neck.
Big mirrors reflecting the profile of my curved body.
All the mirrors sending back pictures
of my dry elbows and wrapped hair,
freckled ears and slender feet.
Stomping, stopping, turning, twisting around.
I don’t see her.
I don’t hear her
but I feel her.
I always feel her
I chase her through the few rooms,
my breathing shallow and quick.
Chasing and stubbing my toes.
Chasing and chasing
until in the glance of a mirror
burgundy dust.
A closer look . . . .
paprika sprinkles on my white shirt
and olive oil finger stains on my gray pants.
Warrior Rest
I see, my dear,
you can take in air
but can you exhale?
Can you be well?
Your rest is revolutionary.
Your healing is a blow to fear.
Your peace is a weapon.
Do not leave it sheathed.
MELAINA WILLIAMS is a poet, playwright, singer/songwriter from Inglewood California. She finds great joy in connecting with people of all backgrounds through creative arts, especially creative writing. Melaina studied Creative Writing and Theatre at USC. Her book of poetry, "Bless Your Sweet Bones" was published by the historical World Stage Press in Leimert Park. She also penned, "The Humble Commode" a chapbook. She currently lives in Los Angeles and spends her days writing and binge-watching Baby Shark with her “two under two.”