Hadara Bar-Nadav
Family of Strangers

Ghosts multiply, spreading

while I sleep.

Ghosts born two at a time, tearing

from my nostrils, and a large child

who bubbles from my mouth and suckles my chin.

Once-black eyes now alive

with iridescent fog.

 Blue electricity needles.

Some ghosts are children who stare

at me while I sleep.

Some are fathers who can walk again,

smoke streaming from their hair.

 In daylight I miss you.

I begin to miss you when

I am peeling from sleep, edges

reddening with sun.

 Ghosts, I adore your absence.

Ghosts, I cannot lie to you

who are transparent, I

who am also transparent.

In daylight I pretend to stop

loving, to stop looking for you,

ghost children, ghost men—

 Let us never be absent or calm.

From Lullaby (with Exit Sign), forthcoming from Saturnalia Books, 2013.
Originally published in Beloit Poetry Journal.