by Christos Polydorou
Rested now, for the ghosts had mercy on him,
for an hour,
in which he had to pay, with the very flower,
of his time on earth,
so to speak,
in which he drew three flowers,
on an A5 page,
and placed it on his rented walls.
He apprehended for his personal survival,
that if he drew enough pictures,
managed to keep them on his walls,
then he would be safe from the ghosts,
who ate his brother.
Why do they want his flesh in particular, so ravenously?
Was it something his father did?
Or more unthinkably, his mother?
It felt like a curse lingering on,
not letting him not fight,
for his sleep.
But he won,
on most nights.
On most nights.