Built in world war two
the Spanish house stood
along the road
Capiz shells made up
its windows
Mom and daughter upstairs
went down the exterior
staircase to join the family
for evening stories
downstairs
They chatted for hours
until the wind howled
and the heavens poured
as they adjusted the cord
to record memoirs
Uncle Roth began
“farewell my motherland….”
they pressed the play button
to hear how the verse
got on
Out came “yakan, yaweh…”
children voices sang
tuneless, dwarfish, wee
dear Lord what’s up with Thee
not a word from motherland!
Nervously they laughed at how
the recording turned out
but when they did
a dusty laughter they heard
from the empty upstairs
As if to mimic and mock
their jaws to shock
and brittle their hairs
to convert them
into believers.

Until now I still don’t know what ‘yakan, yaweh’ is. I scoured the net for hints with very little success. The words are as fresh on my mind as I heard them 28 years ago.

Haunted House on Thursday Think Tank

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