Kaecey McCormick

Ghost Ball

Twenty-eight years after your death, and a lost ball
kicked over the gate brings you back, & suddenly
it’s November & cold & those swordsmen in my gut
strike the way they did before Saturday game whistles
when we were girls & I’d reach for your hand
to pull you closer or maybe to hide
behind your white pixie tails
tugging one & then another, sticking the tips
inside your mouth—& those fall mornings
the stiff ends smelled like rain
or maybe Johnson’s baby shampoo
while our mother stood on the sideline
calling out courage or maybe caution
though we both know you never listened—
I watched as you ran, the number on your back
growing smaller & the empty blue sky
& wind on the tips of freshly cut grass—
the way it made the bottlebrush leaves dance
before ripping the crimson needles away.

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Kaecey McCormick writes poetry and prose in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her work has appeared in many literary journals, including Poet Lore and The Baltimore Review, as well as her two chapbooks. She served as Poet Laureate for the city of Cupertino, California, and her writing has received numerous awards, including the 2026 Wolfson Poetry Prize and the Atlanta Review 2026 Chapbook Prize. When not writing, Kaecey spends her time hiking, teaching, and reading.