Ghosts of Christmas past...
Boston Ancestors
by Susan Minot
I hear them behind me
crossing Persian rugs on heel-less shoes,
drinking Dubonnet, eating nuts
(from the pantry the smell of stew),
talking about naval battles
and varsity crew,
their voices raspy with cigars
in underheated rooms.
Someone sewed their eyes shut
with needlepoint thread
and when they speak
they make up for it
in booming tones.
It is somewhere
out of them
alive or dead
I have sprung.
Yet not a person there seems to recognize
me.
Not one.
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