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: If I'm hoping, then I'm hoping for the frost
- 2: There's nothing here but echoes
- 3: There's no boat to take me where all the stars go to cross the water
- 4: Once you know it's a dream, it can't hurt
- 5: All the ghosts, some old, some new
- 6: The wind is blowing the planes around
- 7: Let the lights run like rivers all over my skin
- 8: I am bound to these shores, I'll be bound till the end
- 9: Wish everyone could hear when she sings
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