Nocturnal Visitations


Awakened at 2:47 am by my own sleeping weeping
all the ghosts visiting my dreams
wringing my heart like an old shirt in a washtub
rubbing it hard on the ridged board

The older woman spector who looked lke Kathy Bates brought messages of comfort
Saying this was better
that love remains
Yet I cried and cried all the same
bitter, angry for their pain, confused, adrift, frustrated, utterly lost
My throat a blender, sharp and whirling
leaving me choking on a thickness no person could be expected to swallow

Too big for one panicked gulp

In my sleep
against my pillow
there was talk of my father
but he didn’t appear
An uncle sent to comfort me
clutching photographs
incanting and conjuring
grief exponential

Why Kathy Bates cloaked white and skeletal as I held her dying
sobbing as I did
begging for a different ending this time as she was carried up the stairs
Mere moments later her pink cheeked with smoothed hair and faded flowery apron for her ghostly visitation and cheery chat
appearing at my side
seated on the bed’s edge
clutching her knees
head thrown back as she smiles and repeats

“It’s better. It’s better. I’m good now.”

But we are not

Julie Ayers
June 2011


About Julie Ayers

Seasoned apocaloptimist, keen admirer of well-placed words, fierce mama bear of extra special children, black belt hugger, and advocate for a fashion rebellion which elevates the most human of hearts to socially acceptable outerwear.

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