The Ghost of Julian

The ink is heavy, black, and dry,

a thick horizontal stroke that killed a boy

before he ever learned to cry

or break a plastic toy.

My mother’s handwriting was younger then,

more hopeful in the loops of every L.

I trace the deep groove left by the pen,

a shallow grave in which a different self could dwell.

Julian was the name she almost chose,

something soft that didn't fit my face.

Now I am the one who stayed, I suppose,

standing in his quiet, empty space.