Sloan Asakura
She wears me whenever I wear her jeans
cut silver from flesh each morning.
mirrors are made only for ghosts.
rust in my hair shimmers back from daylight mistakes,
. turn into nightmares where she is still living,
. and i am still not doing enough.
i can smell her on my clothes
old wood accents on a
. stucco spackled house
every bill she ever paid, stacked
. held together by rubber bands
red spanish roof tiles
. turning pink under hot sun and smog
whispers of pomegranates
. staining fingernails and knuckles
chlorine and salt
. fill the air as if aflame from wax candles
crackling newspaper
. half-filled crossword puzzles
bleeding ballpoint pens
. on a split-wood dining table
detergent and downy
. troubled only by two pairs of hands
peeling green wallpaper
. lay quiet over the air vent
. a million photos in half as many frames
. my own face, a child, staring from most of them
. might i have been loved by a body before the burning
. might i have been loved by a mother without a daughter
. might i have forgotten my body belonged in a picture frame
. in a koa wood box
. we could at least be together again
. and i would not cry when i see
. pennies in ring boxes.
sometimes i forget
ghost means to linger.
About the writer:
Sloan Asakura is a poet and memoirist originally from Los Angeles, now braving the Pacific Northwest. They have been previously published in Jeopardy Magazine, Rigorous, The Mantle, and Rogue Agent. Asakura is a founder and editor of MAWTH. In their free time, they can be found cooking comfort food, gardening, and contemplating persimmons.
Image: Snowfall in Parallel Universe by George Grie (1962- ). Digital image. no technical information specified. By 2014. By free license.
