i've been working on a series of poems that engage ghosts--in whatever form they come in: personal, cultural, historical, literal, etc.--which means that i'm constantly looking for new ways to approach the topic, always inviting ghosts to make themselves at home in my creative den.
There are a few subjects that i've been having trouble entering, but have been poking their thirsty heads up for a drink of a poem anyway--painful relationships, family fissures, sexualized racialized violence, healing work, among others. i've tried to be both generous and honest, but it's draining and difficult work that begs a break every once in a while.
If you live in New York city, you've likely seen these ghost bikes around town:
quiet memorials to the cyclists killed in traffic, plastered in permanent white paint. This one was additionally adorned with flowers and a sign above:
Small airy grave for 169 people--travelers--the dead unrecognized. It was breathtaking in its simplicity. It was an incredibly empowering human moment to know there was a public space to mourn people i didn't know, but whose lives were bound up in mine, given our similar choices of transportation.
A welcome break from my personal ghosts. Something right about the day.
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