Featured Poem

Lost

for Siobhan

My ghosts emerge from fresh photographs
with vacant smiles, and framed certificates
in my study. They wear clothes that do not fit,
and dream of things I have long since left behind.
I hear them speak names that I have never heard.

When, on the cold nights, I wake
from sleep, I hear more ghosts
moving in the attic. They knock
over boxes and fall down the stairs.
I sometimes nurse them back to health:
I sit with them, and make them tea,
and listen to their stories—
such long-winded, distant tales.

And in the kitchen, on those nights,
if I am tired enough, and my guard
is down, and I feel alone, I will sit
with them—and remember.

Praise for Kit's Poetry