Sun
Like the spotted body
at the center
of our solar system,
I, too,
am imperfect.
I, too, eat up space.
Call me
not the light of your life.
Give me
no more warmth.
Give
no more of yourself.
Let me know the cold
of space. Maybe
I’ll brighten alone.
Or maybe not at all—
But burn out among the hottest stars.
Ghost
Like ectoplasm ribboning
out from a median’s mouth,
I, too, feel you within.
But I don’t spook easily.
Tell me where you’ve been,
why you haunt. Tell me
your unfinished business;
I have my own with you:
Why did you abandon
Mom? Did I make you leave?
Do you feel remorse? Is
that why you stick around?
Either answer me or go.
Go to the other side. One day
I’ll see you there. But
I just might ghost you then.
Originally from San Antonio, Texas, Jonathan Fletcher holds a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing (Poetry) from Columbia University School of the Arts. He has been published in Acropolis Journal, The Adroit Journal, Arts Alive San Antonio, The BeZine, BigCityLit, and Catch the Next: Journal of Ideas and Pedagogy.