The Ghost at the door

By Ifeoluwa Ayandele

I know a door that leads to somewhere

in the dark and walking right through 

the door is like walking through a house

filled with the void of a ghost. I am outside 

my own body & my grief grows like wild plants 

in a garden of orange trees. I am the scream

of a child eaten by worms in a small coffin 

& what is left of my room is the anger of loss 

& of window curtains bawling in the wind. 

My dolls understand my absence & they scream

back at my ghost leaving the room. The priest 

sprinkles holy water in my room to drive away

my ghost through the door but I am the keeper 

of the door & they that comes to my room must 

pass through me and I will dwell with them, 

for my room is a harbinger of gods & those

that sprinkle holy water in the house of god 

are his servants. I am the child whose body 

is a doll of dreams & the dreams are lying 

in a small coffin. I am the loss you are trying 

to regain & my room is the relics of happiness.

This story originally appeared in Stonecoast Review Issue 17.

Photo by Alexandre Lallemand