The Turnstile

by Pavel Chichikov

For weeping ghosts there is no rest

The dim light of the Metro station

Hides their faces – light is shadow

To these half-substantial ghosts

One I saw from the police

Whose orders were to force confessions

By any means and he agreed –

Will his weeping ever cease?

I saw one who fed the swans

At Novodevichy

With gobbets of a prisoner's flesh –

Now a ghost he's still a living man

I saw one who pulled the heads

From children's dolls

To search for secret documents –

Is he not completely dead?

They watch the new immortals go

Through the turnstiles

Having paid the mortal fare –

But these are not allowed

All the dead who die today

Pass along through passages

Circuitous and straight

That lead them all away

Stopped, stopped, stymied

A ghost who needs to die

Since death will not be found –

Death to life allied

Until a victim whom he knew

Notices, and takes

The weeping phantom by the hand

And leads him through

Visit Pavel's website at Grey Owl Press.