The Ghost Chest
My mother keeps a ghost upon
Her hand carved chest. You lift
And open the lock with a certain fear
You know what lies within
Emptiness or Spirits:
What flies there?
What cries there?
Who knows the configurations -
The silks, the cottons, the wool
She might have otherwise - in multiples -
Delicately woven, folded, kept?
I knew a woman once
The coffin outside her house
Deep under the family Oak
At night a thread sped forth
From behind the wooden latch
Across the lawn and up the porch
The white thread wound to
Take her life - in one quick jerk -
By the flute of her delicate throat.
Night after night I sit and wonder
Who is the ghost - what can she tell me? -
Latched to the lock upon my mother’s chest.
Detail of wooden chest and lock, carved by Barbara Moore Vincent,
circa 1939, Richmond, California.