Speaking to Beyond

Phoebe Lupton

Dear Aunty,    though we never met,            let me kneel at the foot           of your grave, while friendly family ghosts light incense.   I can taste           the air in the yard, its upper notes      of galangal and red chilli,       its lower notes            of smoke and blood.   I am overheating,        but Aunty, you are freezing.         Feed me your final breath, cool me down while        my head still lies         upon concrete,  while your bones still keep their shapes.

Can you hear the voices calling          in all the languages you speak?          Translate them for me,           afflict me with            their truths. 

I’m a little like Anil from Anil’s Ghost,         the first book I read    by a Sri Lankan author.          I, too,   am reflected through   a ghost.            Anil’s character aim was justice,        doing   her part            in the Civil War,         though she no longer knew her birthplace.   I know             my birthplace,             different from Anil’s, but I do not know       my history,      my culture,      or my politics.             My knowledge is abstract,           an opaque tapestry.

If Derrida says we are haunted           by injustices,   then I say, Aunty,       you’re the ghost of injustice. If Fisher believes        the future is cancelled,        then I believe its cancellation began before your birth. 

Dear Aunty,    dear Achi,       dear spirits,     dear young ones –                    I once was told I was next in line                  to become a spirit,                  a final girl.  You may look like          friendly ghosts,           but really         you are spectres.         Like colonial debris,   like beached             genders of patriarchy. 

I remember that          house of the dead in Malacca.            The ages engraved nearly made         me cry.            Aunty ghosts are one thing but             tiny ghosts,      would-be cousin ghosts          are another.

Your skeleton belies   signs of theft. I’m learning of            your home invasion.   I had one too,  but it came and went quickly like      the South Asian winds    that hover one centimetre       above our skins.          You couldn’t say        I lost anything. Jewels,           devices,           clothes all left intact. 

Another Aunty told me that    the spirits saved face. The face would always precede the mind      or the heart.     This means      my father was raised among   the spirits without even knowing.       This means I was raised among          the spirits  without even knowing.

A researcher called Chee Hong Ng spoke      of stigma as     a cut,   a slash,            a burn,             a scar,              ‘a sign of infamy         or disgrace’.        Another ‘researcher’ called                Google            told me that stigma is             on Christ’s body,        but I don’t think you               believe in Christ.         Further Google searches conclude that                     stigma is          a spot.              Stigma is         a blemish. Stigma is         sickness itself.             How does stigma work           with sickness when sickness pre-exists?

It haunts you and        your skin         cracks              open,   leaving            lesions and cysts that can’t     be cured.         Now, I wish I could             bring you some honey, an anti-inflammatory topical salve. I’ll apply it      to my chest,                 press myself against    your corpse     and the sweetness will       scare the spirits away.