Ghost Sickness 14

By Luis Alberto Urrea

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’s cigarettes. Or he enters

like a thief

through my window

& he steals my food. He’s a live wire: he’s capable

of hiding himself on the moon. & 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.

& 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, Cinco Puntos Press, 1997. Reprinted by permission of the author, 2012.