Grace Chua
My mother believed (the Lord is my shepherd)
in ghosts (I shall not be in want).
Frangipani and jasmine (your rod and your staff),
the flowers of graves (they comfort me),
terrified her. Every seventh month
in the festival of the Hungry Ghosts,
she would send up burnt offerings
(you prepare a table before me)
to her mother’s mother (in green pastures)
her father and her father’s father (beside still waters)
and the third daughter (in the presence of my enemies)
who was never born
(you anoint my head with oil; my cup runs over.)
And when my grandfather died,
(he leads me in paths of righteousness)
the huge black moth (for his name’s sake)
that flapped at us across the kitchen table
(I will fear no evil)
and clung like wet hair (for thou art with me)
to the walls-
that was him (I will fear no evil)
also.
So when it came time
(yea, though I walk through the valley)
for my mother (the valley of the shadow)
to be a ghost herself
(yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of
death)
she would not go (though I walk) quietly
trailing through the house,
(surely goodness and mercy shall follow me)
haunted by (all the days of my life)
the ghosts of her live children
(and I will dwell)
and the memories of her days
(in the house of the Lord
Forever).
Grace Chua
