by Luke Allan

Had a fight in the street with my mother’s ghost
because all she ever does is walk through me.

I said, you’re making a scene.
She said, you’re making a history.

All the daylight had hardened into snow
and was collapsing between the shop fronts.

The broken wind lay in clumps in the corners.

I wanted to run my fingers through her
long, brown unhappiness.

I said, it hurts the most in bed at night.
I said, we could have helped you.
She laughed and said the wind is a beautiful crystal
spread infinitely thin, and eventually
the snow kept falling.