the same way I hold wounded things,
the bird with the clipped wing,
the dazed moth,
scalded in search of light—
I run my hands on fraying walls,
curled fingers like a handle to clasp;
ghosts, I find
are always feeling through the dark
they fold into embraces,
all deadweight and dragging,
like they’ve forgotten how to be held.
Catheryne Gagnon lives in Tiohtià ke/Montreal with her cat Matilda and works in communications in the humanitarian field. Her poetry has been published in Black Fox, Rust+Moth, Roi Fainéant Press, Quail Bell and Moon Cola. When not writing, she can be found tending to her plants, searching for the best window seat at a café or looking for fireflies in dark woods. You can find her on twitter @CatheryneGagnon.
