Skin Care for Temporary Ghosts

By J.M. Emery

I.

Like when we measured days

                        by their weightlessness

and weathers moved through us         in one song                 Pink is red               

                        forgetting

its anger                   But I can’t                  even be snow                                         

II.

These are lonelier walks           the wind sticks its thumb     little dimples                      

on the river                                     I wish the wind                         had a body

thicker than metaphor              white arm hairs                       guts of sunlight    

could grip me like a friend        stuffy breath on my nose     has watched me

all these pointless nights           uprooting my hair             daydreaming decimals

With parental fingers the wind feathers my dying expectations

like so many eels

 About the Author

J.M. Emery is a Chicago-based poet. During the day he works for the government, most recently on initiatives around maternal and infant health.