Becoming ghost

Becoming Ghost Becoming Ghost I stand behind a one-way mirror. My father sits in a room interrogating himself. Bright bulb shining like the idea of a daughter. It looked just like the real thing. The helicopters, the fields, the smoke which rose in colors, the bullets blank, but too real. Coppola yelled, Action! , and we dragged slowly across the back of the screen, miniature prisoners of war to Robert Duvall's broad naked chest. What you'll never see written into the credits are our names. Ghost of a daughter, specter, spectator, from a future we could only dream of. I'd never dreamt that one day you'd be my age and too bitter to talk to me. I who gave every peso to your mother, who sewed coins into the linings of my pockets so that you could eat enough food and grow taller than either one of us. I am asking you to look me in the face and say, Father . I am asking you to see me. Morning yawns and today my father has deleted a daughter. Today he's blessed with two sons. Today he may be haunted by the grip of a friend who died in his arms but not the scent of a baby girl he held years ago. Women , he says, and spits. There is plasm , he says, and shrugs-- and then there is ectoplasm . What is a father who has two sons? Happy , he says with a toothpick pressed between his thumb and forefinger. Happy , he says, looking into the mirror and seeing no reflection. Excerpted from Becoming Ghost: Poetry by Cathy Linh Che All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.