Independent of the eye-stinging secondhand smoke, today has been hot garbage for me, both of my husbands, and the mother of my godchild, which is not how anyone should spend Alan Turing's yahrzeit. Have a ghost poem for him which I had not previously encountered: Linda Bierds, "Evolution." I am forty-one years old, not yet close enough to my birthday to have outlived him, unimaginably closer than when I was sixteen. When Christopher Morcom was my age, he had been dead for twenty-three years.
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Active Entries
- 1: Does everybody know he's a ghost?
- 2: Broken like the earth or a name for a first love or a lesson in shame
- 3: Life, a series of memorials and signals
- 4: I want to show you all the versions of myself
- 5: If you don't want the death of the party after I'm gone, sing one for me
- 6: Once you've gone, remains the question, baby
- 7: That gossip's eye will look too soon
- 8: I left my mind behind in 2015
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