Corner Fence Post — B & W image by kenne
My father
dead now for interminable years.
Won’t leave me in peace, doesn’t want to go.
I see him every day.
My old man hides in trees, in water,
in clouds of smoke escaping from secretary cigarettes,
or he enters like a thief through my windows
and he steals my food.
He’s a live wire.
He’s capable of hiding himself on the moon
and he tells me,
son, nothing remains.
Nothing remains.
My father planted in his Mexican soil,
laying roots into the dark meadow of forget, shines.
When I turn off the lamp,
his face throws sparks in the corner.
When I make love, he comes running.
When I step out to the street,
he pursues me through the eyes of homeless children.
He wears heels of gold.
He smells my coffee.
I see him without seeing him and he says,
son, nothing remains.
Nothing remains.
My father dead already and turned to dust,
cries tears of clay.
With the voice of stones,
he shouts, he sings,
his final advice.
Son, your life is one coin.
Spend yourself well
for nothing remains.
Nothing remains of me.
— from Ghost Sickness by Luis Alberto Urrea
A fine poem for the Day of Dead I think.
I’m with you on this Halloween eve. I love Urrea’s poetry and writing in general. He understands the feeling.