I mentioned in an earlier post some nonsense about my concept of hospice, and the notion of the human body itself as a host. Sometimes I mean this literally -- all of the physical life that goes on inside us, completely independent of our consciousness.

But another angle that interests me is the concept of the human mind as a host. I have become fascinated with the idea of possession and exorcism. This is not to say that I actually believe in spiritual or demonic possession -- just that I find it to be an interesting reflection of psychological duality.

So I wrote a poem about it. Well, I wrote several poems about it. This one in particular is about a deceased family member surviving through his son, and the crisis of identity which follows. Or something like that.

Arithmetic

I.

this is what i know:

that one of us is gone.

he took his air so coolly

that we hardly felt the vacuum.

in his dusty parlor our misplaced faces

fade into felt hats;

fingerprints like saccharin melt

into limp lethargic coffee,

margarine on noon toast.

II.

in the same scene it was you

in my reflection, a ghost at my elbow

or i, a ghost at yours:

i, the eldest son or you,

the youngest daughter, in the doorway

in your father's hat and coat.

III.

one gone, i still saw three, or two

in one, or three in two. the felt-hatted man,

he comes and goes;

I never ask his name

for fear that he'll say mine.

-Tessa Crosby