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: One to sing and one to haul and one to heave me when I fall
- 2: We're the ones who stand here now, but many others will again
- 3: Cormorant to rock, gulls from the storm
- 4: On the edge and off the avenue
- 5: Afghanistan banana stand
- 6: She was an excellent governess and a most respectable woman
- 7: The dark sleek heads are risen from the water
- 8: And the shrouds hum full of the gale of the grave and the keel goes out to the sea
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