Tom Jenks
our father’s ghost haunts the central reservation
On the stretch of dual carriageway near the multiplex,
amongst the low shrubs and dull grey pines. Why didn’t he
choose one of his favourite places, like the ice rink, or the
wax museum, or the toffee apple stand at the petting zoo?
But then he always loved being in between things. Think of
him standing at the very edge of the garden, in the evening, in
the blue hour, one foot on the lawn, the other in the
meadow.
our father’s ghost wears a new black coat
He’s working in the dark, he says, quietly doing what needs
to be done: tightening the lids of jars, dusting inside the
weather house, filling the hairline cracks in the porcelain
figurines with superfine flour. After-hours admin, dull but
important. The new black coat is long and elaborate with
many folds and many pockets. When asked what’s in them,
he becomes evasive: bits and bobs, tools of the trade, some
wire, some string, a few starry fragments.
our father’s ghost visits the restaurant in the department store
The one in the basement, with burnt orange walls. He
orders what he always had: mushrooms on toast, fried egg
on the side, coffee and fruit pie with squirty cream. We make
this every night at home, we say; and serve it on your
favourite plates, with birds and windmills around the rim,
yet you never manifest yourself. Food tastes better in
fluorescent light, he says. Is it even possible for a ghost to
eat? We should call the information line, or look it up in the
manual. Mist around the table legs and the faded
reproductions of famous pictures. Eventually, the store will
become unprofitable and the restaurant will be forced to
close, says our father’s ghost, speaking with his mouth full.
Tom Jenks‘s latest book is The Philosopher (Sublunary Editions, 2024), a collection of prose poems. His work has appeared in Poetry Review, Ambit, the Penguin Book of Oulipo and a range of other publications. He edits the small press zimzalla, specialising in literary objects.
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