The Cock Lane Ghost
1762
What they want, this chapped lip January,
is something to believe in—
the border of the world pulled back,
skin peeled off bone to where the blood is.
A petty, thin, accusing ghost,
still it’s enough to send the hopeful running
through the cold streets,
enlightenment dimming like a lowered gas lamp.
Men stand around waiting to be amazed,
one knock for no
two knocks for yes
waiting to be made miraculous,
lifted from the split ground
and put down whole again.
When, after hours of strained listening,
they find the girl with the wood in her hand
tapping the floorboards,
mystery goes back to its hiding place.
Light pushes its way through the mute clouds
and illuminates a room drained of the warm hum of spectres,
where the only thing beyond the walls
is air.