Salita

Wrapped warmly in her Superman blanket, Salita faces the night.
The ghosts may come too close and haunt, but Sally’s born to fight.
Animated, she tells her spectral tales, convincing even me.
Then, drowsy as the TV drones, Salita goes to sleep.

A half hour later, she starts awake, climbs wearily to her feet.
“I’m going to where I’m comfortable, my bed where dreams are sweet.”
I linger, lazy on the couch, my mind’s eye blinking away thought.
At last I rouse to climb the stairs, settle into my borrowed cot.

A book of tales, fantastically devilish, soothes my conscious to rest.
I wander through cities lusty and crass, engage in nefariousness.
In the midst of the rabble, I try to wake up, tell myself I can choose right from wrong.
There’s a child in my arms who I start to instruct, but her mother cuts short my hymn-song.

Downstairs, there is singing, Salita and God. The clatter of cooking drifts heavenward.
The beds are being made, the paper being read. BBC is updating the world.
With a plate in her hand and a warm mug of tea, Sally banishes dread from the table.
She negotiates ghosts, dreams, and God with real life. I’ve never known someone more able.

January 17, 2010