The Ghost of You

 

A version of our life together

sits in a frame

in our daughter’s room,

smiling back at her while she sleeps —

these two people

role playing a perfect scene

in some foreign Spanish film

whose protagonist

turned into the antagonist

in later years.

Tucking her in,

I stare at those two strangers,

the ghost of you

transparent

with the secrets of lifetimes

you participated

with so many others.

The interpretation of me

is of cellophane

covering rubbish.

That young woman has been buried

with the ex-composition of you

that so eloquently seems to smile

back from the glass,

encased in the lack of understanding

for her needs.

You haunt memories,

escaping the emotions

with your Houdini acts

that left only a version

of the apparition

we thought was you.