MY FATHER'S CLOTHES.(Poem)

 
   During the last nights of my father's life 
   I took refuge in his wardrobe 
 
   in the silence of its forest, among clothes 
   I had never seen him wear, 
 
   that he had not worn for years. 
   Silk shirts so light on their hangers 
 
   like the ghosts of tree people, 
   moonbeam blue and mist green 
 
   --all his pristine mornings 
   waiting for me to breathe on them 
 
   and perform my curing ceremony. 
   Suits of shining black and midnight blue, 
 
   fabrics I had to feel, summoning 
   his memories from their fibres, 
 
   expecting thorns to scratch my skin, 
   as if they required my blood. 
 
   Coats taking root in the wardrobe floor 
   like buttresses of great ceibas, 
 
   requesting me to crouch inside 
   their ...