The apostles came when the night was weighty and black, their long shadows filling the window, no breath to see, for they are dead I believe. It’s two or three AM. My love’s comfortable, the furnace is working, after all its January. It’s at times like these I wish I had Dante back, earthbound sprite living in and out of me, now I’m thinking he’s a part of that apostle pack. Its egregious I think, looking though the darkness, hearing them scratch the window panes, they should come inside with their riddles, and their claims. I move to the hallway, almost stumbling down the basement stairs. There’s an anecdote in that. Maybe I’ll tell you it someday. You my friends, need to know what’s down there. It’s so late, I whisper to maybe only you who would be like me. I’ve lived too long, and it’s too late to be seeing ghost, at a quarter odd three. The dining room seems longer, a never-ending stall. A shuffling of my feet, my usefulness to these host, it appears a never ceasing call. The sliding glass door, that opens to the cold, outside across the heavens, the Gothic clouds. I see creatures, without wings, smiling they fall.
For one strange moment, I think I hear so clear, Maureen McGovern sing, “The Morning After” is near. Not for me, I think, the apostles in feverish spin, their faces or spirits, so close, they touch my skin. The darkness has come, all hail the darkness, my insides cry, nothing you can say to me, my apostles, my spirit wants to die. Though I suppose I would rather not freeze, funny how that happens when your depressed, you want to go with ease. I bend down, the patio has snow, and it reflects my breath, I look up to hear my dad say, “your far from dead”.
Thurman a Reverend, from years all sewn up. I look up at him and smile, “I’m a Hebrew now, so different from when you offered the communion cup”. “Doesn’t matter” he says, “I’m now one too, things are a little different beyond, I’m a Levite, it’s what I do”. My Pappy is laughing, he yells, “it’s good to be back”, I start to hear that damn Chihuahua, yapping. The spirit of my grandfather woke it from its late-night nap. The lonely figure, the one standing at the back, it’s my friend Jason, he’s looking me up and down, a sign of disapproval, “there’s something he says, something wondrous you lack”.
“Out of the eater, something to eat; out of the strong, something sweet“, I turn and look at the moon, the blue-eyed moon, that place from where Dante speaks. It’s his voice, teasing, and cold. “What does he mean”, I yell at the apostles? I have aggrieved the before said Chihuahua, it’s tenor, reaching a falsetto high. The apostles laugh, as in some course, these phantoms, how dare they ruin my depression in the middle of its strongest sigh. “Your life it needs you, take from it and be fed”, my dad backs up, nearly tripping over his own father, if it’s possible for ghost to do such. “I’m drinking too much”, I spit the words out looking first at Pappy than at Thurm. “Drink less”, whisper’s Jason, having come up behind me. “The righteous one eats to satisfy his soul“, it’s the muse Dante again. He’s fading though I notice that. In fact, they all are, they come to visit, now it seems there going back. “Don’t go”, I’m begging now, and it does seem one of them is coming back, but it’s only Dante, no doubt coming for one last tease.
He lands close, squatting on top of the snow-covered fire pit. He reaches out and feels my breath that’s misting towards his face. “I wish I could still breath”, he sounds tender, an accomplishment for him. “What do you want Dante”, I ask, I signal toward the sky, “what do any of you want”? He points toward the snow, that part I thought undisturbed, and I see the honeycomb lying there. “Eat and speak Torah and live“, he laughs. And just as he disappears along with the honeycomb, I think I hear him say,
“listen to Rachmaninoff – Piano Concerto Number Two, it’s a great way to work off a funk, and it’s the apostles favorite”! – 01.18.2017 – דָּנִאֵל