NIGHT OFFERINGS

Emma Smith

In this house, it’s not always easy
to separate reality from fiction – we try
to adjust the aerial until the picture

becomes clear, only to get static again
when somebody moves. At night
I sleepwalk into every room, drop

pennies into all our water glasses —
wishes for my father to return,
as if we hadn’t lit sparklers

in the hallway the night he left,
as if my brothers hadn’t barricaded
the doors with books and video cases.

On Halloween night, my grandfather dies
and we watch Thirteen Ghosts cross-legged
on the carpet that still smells like him.

I’m not scared until I go up to bed,
until I see his ghost unstitch itself
from my grandmother’s tapestry

and drag his cane across the air.
I clutch my fake elephant tusk,
repeat the incantations in my head

(only ever in my head)
and pray to the Gods
until he finally retreats.