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Showing posts from December, 2017

A History of Grief, by Tom Darin Liskey

A History of Grief There were nights I couldn’t sleep After you died. The cancer  That stole our father Took you as well. In Geneva Your ghost came Back to me In a rush of memories The coma. The hospital bed. The brass crucifix on the wall. The cancer growing Your broken body. Grief turned My eyelids Inside out Like celluloid; Flayed my heart open Like a dumb animal. So, I dreamed awake Like ghosts do Walking the narrow Night streets of Carouge Past alleyways Where Arab boys Sold hashish, My feet moving Always forward To a clock Without hands Every muscle Yearning for exhaustion Something to  bring rest, But none ever came. I became a stranger to myself Hating the reflection I saw in darkened shop windows— The ghost of a drowned man Floating on black water. An image that only you would understand, My sister. Tom Darin Liskey  spent nearly a decade working as a journalist in Venezuela, Argentina