To My Mother at New Year's

On the phone, my father
urges me to remember you.
I remember your anger,

the luminous swell
of your outdated,
blond beehive;

your cold opulence,
how everything you touched
turned beautiful.

How you smelled of Giorgio,
the gorgeous handwriting
on your envelopes.

In every room,
an elegant vase of flowers,
petals and ivy descending

in perfect patterns;
luxurious dresses
you created yourself.

How I could never fit
into your constellations
of perfection and holiness,

when you looked me in the eye
and said you wished
you had aborted me.

But in dreams
you are always embracing me
in love,

never
harsh words,
everything that you weren't.

And, like you,
I'm not here.
Like you, I'm a ghost.