Issue #99

Each poem is a ghost
Careening through atmosphere
Until it hits you

In the middle of
The heart with enough force you
Have no choice but to

Take up pen, write
It into existence (or
Else risk a haunting

Until the next one
Strikes.) Tonight, I’ve held my arms
Outstretched waiting for

You, ghost. Cursed my own
Image in the mirror, checked if
It was a full moon.

Parenthood is the
Test of patience you’re bound to
Fail in moments, but

It’s the same patience
That’s kept me writing, crossing
Out, til this arrived.

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