Ghosts
Ghosts who I loved wandering through the glass doors and the turnstiles
without seeing me walking swiftly behind them.
Your cologne in the air, a morning before, while I waited for the train on the platform.
The memory of it. Here, this is the place where I was in love with you, stranger.
Ghosts disappearing around the brick corners,
not hearing my footsteps chasing behind them.
So what if I am always following the memory of you.
Twinkling winking Polaris that will lead me nowhere.
(this fragment of figment)
Twilight: I wore a beret, the fuzzy charcoal cashmere sweater that I stole from my
mother’s armoire on that chilly morning
and I walked through the windy, discarded streets
searching for Ghosts.
Maybe I am going home.
Maybe home is always looking for you.
-Brachah Goykadosh
Bracha Goykadosh is a graduate student at Brooklyn College.
