To the ghost that will not die

(After Robert Kroetsch’s ‘Sounding the name’)

 

In this poem, I didn’t find out.

There was no ‘I thought you should know’.

I didn’t separate our books, DVDs,

feet.

 

Each smile wasn’t a shot

of Jack.

The year doesn’t spit out

dates in Biro blots.

 

In this poem, I still wear your socks

and try on your surname like a wedding dress.

In your car, we sing that stupid song

with the windows rolled up.

 

Kimberley Hayes