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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- 1: I'm not related to anyone
- 2: You are a case of the vapours
- 3: And we're on the right side of the ground where they bury the bones
- 4: Now I feel like Kafka with a bad migraine
- 5: For when the heart's a sinking stone
- 6: Fierce as the Baltic sea
- 7: All the trees carve shards of light
- 8: Reflections coming through the radio, the telephone, the TV
- 9: I want what's true
- 10: I've been with him for seven years and now I'll lose my situation
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