Published on Academy of American Poets (

Ghosting Aubade

The air smells soft today and of the past,
redbuds dispersing their ruby secrets,

myself among them. I kept the body
taut with thirst, so that it thrived without.

Then, this new man, suspect as always, showed
up, glinting like he knew which songs I liked.

What I know of him fits within my palms:
his twin scars but not their cause. His lamb’s wool

voice and canvas shoes. A lavender net.
What I know of love fits inside my mouth.

The air smells soft today and of the past.
I robe myself in gray and green.

Some come to us in the perfection
of their frailty, some leave us by it.


Copyright © 2018 by Amie Whittemore. This poem originally published appeared in Southeast Review. Used with permission of the author.


Amie Whittemore

Amie Whittemore received a BA from the University of Illinois Champaign-Urbana, an MAT from Lewis and Clark College, and an MFA from Southern Illinois University Carbondale. She is the author of Glass Harvest (Autumn House Press, 2016) and teaches English at Middle Tennessee State University.

Date Published: 2018-01-01

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