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Love Letter To A Ghost


By Shula Rosen


Go ahead and touch me, since we are both dead.
Your remains lay in a pine box, mourned by the weeping of the pine trees when it rains.
Mine walk, sit, laugh and resist sleep
writhe in surrender when your soul touches mine late at night.
 
There is no sin, there is no body, but you have only to greet me with your soul
and my body wakes sleepless as if shaken by thunder, struck by lightening.
And I can tell no one.
 
It is a joy to feel the other half of my soul, even as it inhabits another world.
I must be an honorary member of the dead, or altogether mad,
as I feel you climb down to visit me like Jacob's angels down the Heavenly ladder.
And when you return home, you warm yourself
by the fires of gehinnom of which you are a veteran,
purified of pain and worldly burdens, you laugh above these fires
and light your pipe by them like a husband reading the paper
on a comfortable chair on a winter night.
 
Yes, this must be madness.
And I have a degree in madness from several universities.
For those exams, the high mark of suffering makes the grade,like a high grade diamond,
shining with sharp laughter and tears.
I've graduated to a degree of pain so bright it is radiant, and I smile, I can only smile and shine.
 
But true madness is looking at a world of lies,
and saying "whatever I do not see,  whatever I do not feel, does not exist."
So let us lie together under the radar of the true madmen
whose routines are dictated by the churning of their common senses.
They do not believe in us.
 
So let us be dead, half-dead, together.
Praise G-d, they do not believe in our existence.

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