Ghosts do nothing on their own. They are like memories that have forgotten where they belong. You remembered that when you came home and saw your brother. He asked who you were. You said you were your brother. The two of you sat on the damaged porch, a cool wind looked for a place to hide. If you’re your brother, then who am I? your brother asked. You told him he was his own brother. There was no cloud in the sky, no sky. If I’m my brother, then how come I’m not home? your brother asked. A local factory smoked. You tasted the air in the air, as if it was bad. He asked you again why he wasn’t home. You said it was because he moved. A piece of dirt lay dying in the grass. It felt alone. But why did I move? he asked. Where did I go?
Jason Heroux was the Poet Laureate for the City of
Kingston from 2019 to 2022. He is the author of four books of poetry: Memoirs
of an Alias (2004); Emergency Hallelujah (2008); Natural Capital
(2012) and Hard Work Cheering Up Sad Machines (2016). His recent books
include a short fiction collection Survivors of the Hive (Radiant Press)
and two poetry chapbooks: New and Selected Days (Origami Poems Project)
and Something or
Other (above/ground press).
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
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