I.
My father’s ghost lived behind my eyelids
between the hours of eight pm. and eight am.
from the time I was nine years old.
Once the sun rose,
his ghost preferred
to reside in the crawlspace
at the corner of my room.
He came about in dreams,
relentless in his accusations
with unkind words
that cut into the dark air
of my imaginings.
“Why”, I asked,
“did you die?”
A doctor enters, interjects:
“Well you see, he could have lived.
We have the technology. But
we didn’t know that then. We’ve worked
with many cases like your father’s.
They’re all fine now.
Sorry.”
My father reappears:
“Well, I didn’t die. I faked my death.”
Then I would wake.
The sun was up, my father’s ghost
would slink to the far end of the room,
not to be seen until
the following night.
After some time, this all became
less frequent. The doctors disappeared and I would not set foot in a hospital
for at least seven years.
Once he came to my sister
as she slept on a trampoline
in my aunt’s backyard,
the indian summer
warm in her hair.
He extended an apology,
told her everything would
be fine, then dissipated
once again.
II.
My father’s ghost
is a blooming wildflower
off the crags
of a lonely mountain.
My father’s ghost
slipped in through
the floorboards
of a creaking cottage
to watch an old man
dream on his deathbed.
My father’s ghost
is separate from the body.
In fact, it has never once
been to Virginia,
nor is it interested
in visiting.
My father’s ghost
remembers the fall
, sleeps through winter,
and often
forgets the spring.
My father’s ghost aches
in the hot months,
recalling its first
lonely summer
after life.
My father’s ghost
never inhabited a cat,
but watched
with moderate pleasure
as my mother and sister
once called to a stray
where they thought
he may reside.
Monday, November 9, 2009
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