Skip to content
March 14, 2021 / barton smock

non notes

I wrote, just there, of a mother whose hair was a ghost fighting a ghost for her head. How easy, to lose a poem. A ghost, a head, a ghost. A boneless brother in a shrinking bathtub. How easy to leave out the wind, because it’s only the wind. With its one memory and then its one.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: