The Ghost Above My Bed
When I was young my brother
would come to my room at night.
His body was made of vapor,
his face a ghostly white.
He’d wake me from my slumber,
floating high above my head.
And fearfully I’d hide below,
waiting for his tricks to end.
His eyes would slit and threaten,
he’d take pleasure in my unease,
Until finally I would anger
and vow to make him cease.
Stop it, stop it! I’d shriek up,
and get on my feet to beat him,
I’d jump up high and swing my arms,
but I was too small to reach him.
I’d stomp my feet and punch the sky,
kicking and hitting – almost there.
Then suddenly I’d snap awake,
and be swinging at nothing, only air.
My small arms were still outstretched
though it was just me there, alone.
A moment ago he’d been there,
but like a caged bird, now was gone.
Then memory’d return to me,
and I’d be gripped with frantic fright.
My brother has been dead five years,
so who visits me at night?