Two Poems by Jessica Kagansky

 

Parisse

 

Hello, my darling ghost,

we’re walking a garden now

Later, in a museum,

my hair shines white in a dark alcove

I notice the pockmark behind

your left ear

 

I kiss the little pinkish ridge of bone

your fist makes until

you vanish

into the gondola of time

and I’m left tracing a drawbridge

I drew on my arm under the imprints

your big eyes left

 

 

 

 

In Memory

 

in the subway there are

always bald men i sit

and wonder what the weight

of one strand maybe one

dyed blue is in space

 

i also used to talk

to this jerk who probably

pulled my hair in his

mind but said my eye

looked marble that’s like earth

 

when breakfast starts to smell

i think of when b

and i hung out that

one time he made me

lie down look up he

 

said and there were whole

bucketloads of stars like a

star supermarket upstate isn’t at

all like brooklyn there are

stars and b breathes there

 

coffee in my kitchen isn’t

the best coffee i’ve had

but it makes my house

smell like welcome back we

missed you please don’t leave

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jessica Kagansky's work was most recently featured in The Brooklyn Review. She splits her time between New York and Chicago.