Ghost
By emma_lee
- 413 reads
Father Ghost
"I saw Ghost," she says,
her hair golden as Rumplestiltskin's thread,
skin pale and soft as the Goose Girl's feathers,
a five-year-old in love with fairytales.
We wait to cross the road.
I can remember undressing quickly
so that they didn't rip my clothes
in that dirt-smeared room
and that crud-encrusted table
I had been made to lie on. My figure had gone,
eyes were bruised and puffy,
another row of whiteheads had erupted,
but they hadn't looked at me as a woman.
I'd stayed numb until she'd kicked me
into believing in her.
I'd called her father Ghost.
As we wait a man with a clean white shirt turns,
the Serbian sun catches his wedding ring.
He has her neat nose, her prim mouth.
"I saw Ghost," she says.
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