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.