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: Can't I take my own binoculars out?
- 2: It's only eight, right?
- 3: If it's a moment in time, how come it feels so long?
- 4: It's time to change partners again
- 5: אַ ניקל פֿאַר זיי, אַ ניקל פֿאַר מיר
- 6: אמתע מעשׂה, אמתע מעשׂה
- 7: But the soft and lovely silvers are now falling on my shoulder
- 8: Is this your name or a doctor's eye chart?
- 9: And they won't thank you, they don't make awards for that
- 10: No one who can stand staying landlocked for longer than a month at most
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