This poem is taken from Stand 215, 15(3) October - November 2017.

Chelsea Whitton Three Poems
I see my dead brother on a 2015 street  
Who knows what may happen if I start to write about it?
City grew bored, today, of making me feel small and worn
so it got its light together, smeared it differently. Who knows
why I took a different route on my way back to the office,
chose the diagonal of Broadway over my habitual grid?  
This baby shape of ill will I prefer to nurse, the bad-guy masks  
I like to make my strangers wear, the poison pill I’ll take
when my wall of scowl begins to slacken—I dropped them
with a start, they rolled into the sewer grate or caught  
the breeze like loose trash from a capsized handbag…
For there my brother went, the short legs and the overlong  
torso, looking younger than the last, real time, with more hair  
on his head, wearing a leather jacket (yes!) but of a newer style  
than the one he favoured. Still, I thought, it was he. It felt  
like him. I don’t know why it always happens this way.
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