Toward a Theory by Evelyn Gill

You are ghost to me, caught in the rectangle
Of progress, the YouTubification of social
Interaction, fitting for a boy (a man) without
Theory of mind. Numbed to commands of too
Many metal mothers, you become request-making
Machine; I, your playlist, the half hour between start
Stop. Repeated as if start was Center and center|
Everything. Same songs sung into the wishing
Weal of relation. Cat turned to calendar.
Calendar to catchphrase. Catchphrase to screenshot
Of you as a child, tracing outlines on a woven rug
A maze your fingers travel back to. Do you
Remember your Ghosthood in our mother’s mind?
House I will never know. My own theory
Floundering as it Flattens our interiorities to fit the page
As if any of us Believe in ghosts other than our own.

Evelyn Gill (she/her or they/them) is a queer gardener, bird-watcher, poet, and nurse living in northwest Washington with their spouse and dog. They write poetry out of need to create beautiful things and explore the often baffling world within and around them.