In the photograph, I ghost 
my brother. He ghosts me 
back. The linen lap-cloths 
in our laps no longer, now 
draped across our freckled 
faces, now solarized white
like flashed out lightbulbs. 
Burgundy booth cushions 
no longer for us to sit still. 
This once was to celebrate 
for things now no longer. 
Winter no longer, my throat 
bundled no longer, warped 
glasses iced no longer.
We now ghost in our own 
bodies–– no longer neon 
pink sketchers, no longer 
a white daisy in my hair, 
placed by mother. On my 
brother’s blue sweater, 
the silhouette of a beluga 
whale spouts no longer. 
We no longer pour the half-
full bottle of red for the man 
no longer behind the camera. 
My mother, no longer the 
mother there, still glamorous in 
skinny denim and a twist top 
tee. We enter the brick building
no longer, memory rendering 
this place no longer, yet 
when the bus passes on hazy 
April days, through opaque 
glaze I can squint and see 
moving shadows of something 
no longer, obscured by time,
two twin ghosts.