Maternal Ghost

She is lying there in the interval

waiting and even if I pressed the clover

or a flower between the book and

the room, air is measured

in lilac and violets

wind in the velvet,

smells of her perfume

the purple tracery on the green stem

the web in narrow splinters.

She is bone and wool

treasure casket purple cloak

rag and calcified relic

of a resurrected saint

to hear your voice as solitary choir

to see your face smiling at the window

the halo. Highly glazed. It shines as if

I held a candle to it.

Even the sound. When she dropped a coin in the box.

Disappeared. One does not imagine this.

Susan Blanshard currently lives in Hanoi. In May she will be running a series of writing workshops at the UN, as well as a personal series of Cafe Writer's Workshops. She is expecting a flood of writing coming from this expat community. Most are women who have been living in tough locations/political climates. Warzones and isolated areas. There is an overall sense of adaptation to environment and a strong spirit needed to counter loss of place and familiar patterns.