Elegy for the Ghost of my Father

When you dream that someone who is still alive
             has come to sit at the foot of your bed 

as a ghost, it's either a premonition or your fear,
            aided by dinner's beef and potatoes, still heavy

in your belly. That's what happened one night
            when you didn't get home at the time 

you said you would, from a trip to Manila. In my room,
            under the drape of mosquito netting, I opened

my eyes and saw you in a bright checkered shirt
            you didn't own, hat in your hands, wordless, eyes 

smiling. When you died it was at the very end of July,
             more than a decade later: most of the city 

still in ruins from an earthquake, the furniture 
             scuffing the floor with each aftershock. 

For so many years that followed, I'd see you everywhere:
             the hem of your yellow robe disappearing around

the hallway, the smell of your aftershave trailing
             like a curl of smoke. You'd come into my dreams

and speak, and it was the sound of your voice as I 
             remembered it, though I barely retained each

salutation. I was told my grieving was the reason for each 
             return; or my incessant questions, having been

pushed to the front of the line. And unless it softened
             or I learned how to be the grownup and the parent, 

your ghost would keep rowing back, unable to ford 
            the crossing.  I don't recall the exact moment 

I must have finally learned to let you go. You don't
            visit me in dreams anymore, though I still address 

you in poems. I wonder who's dreaming that I've returned,
             though I haven't left like that yet; what look or gesture

could communicate across the ether everything our 
             witless hearts are so incapable of putting into words.